I wake up to the sweet sound of birds chirping, the Cuckoos singing, the parrots talking. The sky is chaotic as everyone is getting ready to leave home, to go to their daily labor.
I lay a gentle kiss upon my wife’s forehead, “Good morning Mrs. Sharma!”
“Good morning Mr. Sharma!” she responds, catching hold of my hand to cuddle a little more.
My right hand runs upon her face, cupping her cheeks, my forefinger counting the lines by her eyes, and I am pretty sure there is a wrinkle again. I guess she is getting younger day by day, feeling overwhelmed with my every hour hug (*winks).
With the help of my stick, I manage to get up. After getting fresh, I open the locks of the main door to take a little stroll in our garden, walking around bare feet in the grass, which was wet by tiny little droplets of water, and in between, I could feel the crushing of Jamuns, beneath my legs. Ohh! this must be the work of the wicked Night Wind, always loosening off the grip of innocent baby Jamuns.
“Sharma Ji, Chai ban gayi he,” I hear along with the sound of the cups clinking. Ignoring the tempting smell of that Ilaichi tea, I quickly speed up my steps towards the Mogra plant that we planted three years ago, at the corner of our garden. It was Valentine's day gift by me to my dearest another half.
I know celebrating Valentine at the age of 77 can get quite cliché, but what can be done? She's all about celebrations; no matter what the occasion is, I have to make her smile. Oh, the music of her laughter that day still rings clearly in my ears.
Ohh! I got distracted again, Mrs. Sharma never fails to distract me. Anyway, so I follow the pleasant savor to pluck the bunch with the most number of flowers. The aroma starts intoxicating my soul, wanting to turn it into a bee, to learn the grammars of its essence, to get a little closer to the smell.
I hear Meenu Ji calling me again as I try to rush back to the balcony. Upon reaching, she helps me in those three entrance steps of our house, crafted beautifully with millions of memories. My ears reacted instantly to the sound of tea being poured from the Kettle.
“Yeh lijiye Sharma ji, apki special ilaichi wali chai. Aur subah subah aap kaha tehelne nikal gaye the?”
“Apke liye yeh laane” I say, handing her over that small packed group of Mogras, just to hear her magical laughter.
We sip tea as the soft morning breeze continued brushing past our ears at an uneven momentum. Today is just another Sunday, but the realization feels heavy on my heart as it sinks through my lungs that I, an 80-year-old blind man was falling in Love, with all of these tiny bits of moments all over again!
“ऐ काश के हम
होश में अब आने ना पाएं
बस नगमें तेरे प्यार के गाते ही जाएँ”
(Humming in a loop)