The Alternate Love Story Of an Old Man( Part III).

As the anemic gold of the morning slowly nurtured itself to a cheeky carmine flush, and his wife slowly disappeared within the folds of her faded curtains,Hariprasad went about his medley of duties.   

The mornings were untroubled and as restful as the mysterious runes. Tea time over, Hariprasad would shuffle across to his kitchen, and wash his tea-cup meticulously with the tiny stream of water that flowed from the tap. The saucer he would position at the exact same angle, near the shredded blue ledge, a perfect hundred twenty degrees- sunlight bouncing off ,as water slowly whimpered and trickled down its curvature. 

Obituaries. Eulogies. Black and white pics and a elegy to the departed. Hunched over his one table, back baking in the unquenchable suttee of the ten-o-clock sun, Hariprasad perused the obituaries in the local paper devotedly. Place, time, date, nature, cause of death. If the obituary was written by the family or by a friend.At first, it was painful. Sometimes it was a person he knew, from work. Memories marched in like enemy soldier's, shooting stinging darts of the old times. A joke shared, the bland coffees in the canteen, the general back-slapping. The jokes familial life, conversations he never participated but was attentive to-of nights of alcoholic exuberance.Slowly, it became more of a curiosity. A mild smile would snake up his lips as his eyes would lose focus and a dry chuckle would escape. The wilting blue of the walls would become a landscape of vagueness as his mind painted a mural of colorful memories. A breath of a prayer to the friend and a silent thank you that it was not him, or his..Wife.

Evenings were quixotic. The wine from the God's feast would spill into the sky, intoxicating vermilion trembling and cascading down the landscape.. silent and soothing. Like every man who went back to his wife when the shadows shortened, Hariprasad walked the short distance from his bed to the window, stubby old man finger's drumming a random beat on the window pane, waiting.

And she would appear at around 5- the creaking doors announcing her ,heralding her. Lock the door, gently place key on ledge. A white saree with a faint strip of black on the sides. A handkerchief neatly folded to a prim triangle dangling from her flaccid waist. In the crepuscular evening light, her skin looked like softened tea cakes, dusted with powder. A single indulgence of gold knitted itself to her neck. Her hair was sparse on her scalp, the oil glistened in the light. A simple ribbon of cotton laced itself like poetry around her feeble bun.

For Hariprasad, she looked like a painting in gentle motion. Her little habits amused him, gladdened him. As he would watch her pace the terrace, in simple, unhurried steps- sometimes in cadence to the song that whistled gladly through the radio, head bowed down; it struck him, how much he loved her. He knew not her name, except her address; G7, Block 42, Chowringee street. He did not know her parentage, neither her birthplace. He did know whether she liked the smell of lilies or the velvet of a rose. He would never know her stories from her life, or stories she wished was hers.

But for some inexplicable reason, he loved her. He worried over her. If the delivery guy who came every Saturday did not turn up, he spent anxious hours for he knew it would mean that she would not be having her cup of milk before sleeping. If she was a little late in pulling open the blinds in the morning, a dull, nauseating throb would pulsate through him. If love meant caring, If love meant knowing what was not being told, He knew he LOVED her, truly and honestly.

Black stained the sky- gliding and roller-blading like an imp. First a spot here, a curl of purple cloud there.He could only faintly make out the patches of sweat on her underarms now. The street-lights sprang to life like a phoenix- glowing halos of halogen. Her pace had slackened, the pallu had slipped out of her waist. Her hand inched up to lift the key from the ledge, she slowly walked to the door, unlatched and went inside.

But it was not adieu yet.

He stayed there by his window, black light raining all over him. He knew she would show herself just once more. She- the wife whose name he not knew. And sure enough, some minute's later, the curtain parted one last time. An incense stick was placed in a tiny shriveled brown skinned vegetable - the smoke curled in wispy ropes, melting into the balmy night. Moonlight kissed the serene, just washed face, eyes shut close in fervent prayer. A smile. A gesture. He touched his hand to his forehead, looked at her and whispered "Good Night".

P.S: A very short part 4 follows :)

Also forgive me for the abruptness of the story.