Lesser Thought

So often I find myself finding an answer to where I see myself in ten years. And since, I can hardly find the right place to spell it out, when someone asks, I say not here. But I see myself in a rather specific way. I am wearing a vintage sari. I have lacquered toes and finger tips. A small round bindi, sindoor red in colour, not blood and not cherry, adorns my forehead. The forehead is creased, partially stress, rest wisdom. I want to be photographed next to my soulmate. We are standing in our porch, him in a contrasting white kurta pyjama. White linen, crisp like it just came from the dry cleaners. He smiles faintly. His forehead creases almost as intensely as mine, for reason quite different. I see myself in my beige bedroom in my chiffon palla that goes across my back on the other shoulder while I read Fountainhead. Probably for the fifth time, while he sits in the other end of the room, reading a silly little book of his for the fifth time too. The casual intimacy of having a par...

 "How have you been?" In the four sessions each month for eleven months straight, I had never answered the question direct.  "The week was disgusting, I'm angry and I resent myself," I said without taking the seat. In twenty four years, I had never felt comfortable having the first word. I was always the one to answer the questions. Shortest possible answers. Perhaps, it was now touching the roof. As soon as I finished my sentence, I was preparing to tell him why the week was "disgusting", instead he asks if I ever resented other people. "No," Possibly the quickest no I've blurted since I could form words.  Now I was sure, he'd ask me the need to resent myself then. I was looking at the water glasses on the table next to us, something green under one of them.  "Maybe resent them a little, sometimes." I looked at him and in true fashion shed a tear. Little value, a tear is always ready to fall, here. I had not resented anyone...