He is still the man I loved

He is a true yogi. He wakes up early every morning and does all the asanas. He reads the Bhagavad Gita and the Upanishads every other day.

During sunset, he loves reading and re-reading Ramayana…

He loves our two daughters, Trishna and Harini. He teaches them language and arithmetic in his own inimitable style.

They were days when we used to go trekking up unbeaten paths, when we used to sing aloud on solitary beaches, sleep under the sweet moon, blow flying kisses to each other… when he used to write me a love letter every birthday.

We used to get wet in the first showers when the sun was still up.

Now, there are utensils to clean, school uniforms to wash, TV serials to watch, and the occasional relatives to visit.

We talk through glances and nods. Through monosyllables when required. We don’t have too much time. There is too much of work. Those bills to pay: the house loan, maintenance, the car loan, the school fees, their shoes and books, the bloody workbooks, and extra tuitions in Marathi.

Sometimes, I sit during my afternoon breaks while the kids take a nap and think to myself, “What if?”

But, anyways, life goes on. I manage.

He is still the man I loved. I loved.