On Returning Home

When you return home before her and look across the drawing room, you notice a certain change in orderliness. On giving a closer look, you realize how she must have struggled to make up for waking up late. There is palpitation in the unfinished bowl of cornflakes and there’s disgust in the haphazardly torn packet of yogurt. The half-wet towel in the washroom was the final surrender before time. Three to four pair of shoes heaped over one another. What does that mean? She must have tried all of them in a mad rush to see which one goes well with her attire.

Why bother about the physical beauty of a shoe? I need time to wonder.

Has it ever happened to you that you return very late at night and since the only member in the family is sleeping away to glory, you try to figure out what has changed in the house ever since you left? The dining table looks half-empty and unusually prim. The nightly silence is often broken by hesitant drops of water on the wash basin. You tiptoe into the bedroom and find her in sleep and with glasses on. My Feudal Lord (by Tehmina Durrani) lies on the bed in abandonment. You are too tired to bother either of them.

Returning home is a strange feeling when the only member is either missing or sleeping. Moral of the story: arrive on time.

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