Small voices from behind the wall.
Through the thin lemon yellow walls of a hotel room, I hear snatches of laughter; frothy words from a faraway place.
People you’ve never seen before and will probably never see. Strangers, separated by peeling walls.
Rubber soles on wooden flooring. The clinking of bangles, maybe an anklet. A woman; perhaps with long hair that used to be longer. I imagine her sitting on the bed – complaining about her aching feet. Maybe she uses night cream from the drug store; the one that smells of medicine but in a comforting way.
There is a dull humming sound; a man’s voice. Her husband possibly. In a world of things, where it’s easier to assume him to be a lover, I think I’d rather not. The story in my head then opens up too many options of clandestine affairs and extra marital worries.
Perhaps, he likes to hum softly with his head resting against the wall. Old songs with a faraway look in his eyes. He listens to his wife’s complaints. He looks back at their day here. The wife, the hotel room with blue curtains, the wedding they just attended.
Cupboards open and shut. She’s putting her wedding clothes away. A chocolate brown sari with work in gold. It smells festive. The thin gold bangles – her mother’s. She puts them away in boxes lined with velvet. She comments about the wedding, the pungent food and the dull people, their saris and their lives, gossip intertwined with concern.
The man says something. I cannot tell the tone; perhaps reproachful. He tells his wife to not be such a woman. I can hear her laugh. It’s an old running gag in their marriage; her need to gossip and his need to chide.
I imagine her sitting at the edge of the bed, smoothening imaginary creases on her nightgown. She rests her hand absentmindedly on her husband’s knee. Eventually, she gets into bed with him and drifts off to sleep.
The walls carry no sound; just me and my wandering imagination.
I imagine him sitting there looking at her. Not necessarily love; but definitely an enviable level of comfort. He can smell the oil in her head. Almond oil in a clunky bottle. All their years together and the small things that will never change.
The next day when I wake up, I know they’ve left.
Maybe I’ll run into them sometime. Another city, another wedding.
Through the thin lemon yellow walls of a hotel room, I hear snatches of laughter; frothy words from a faraway place.
People you’ve never seen before and will probably never see. Strangers, separated by peeling walls.
Rubber soles on wooden flooring. The clinking of bangles, maybe an anklet. A woman; perhaps with long hair that used to be longer. I imagine her sitting on the bed – complaining about her aching feet. Maybe she uses night cream from the drug store; the one that smells of medicine but in a comforting way.
There is a dull humming sound; a man’s voice. Her husband possibly. In a world of things, where it’s easier to assume him to be a lover, I think I’d rather not. The story in my head then opens up too many options of clandestine affairs and extra marital worries.
Perhaps, he likes to hum softly with his head resting against the wall. Old songs with a faraway look in his eyes. He listens to his wife’s complaints. He looks back at their day here. The wife, the hotel room with blue curtains, the wedding they just attended.
Cupboards open and shut. She’s putting her wedding clothes away. A chocolate brown sari with work in gold. It smells festive. The thin gold bangles – her mother’s. She puts them away in boxes lined with velvet. She comments about the wedding, the pungent food and the dull people, their saris and their lives, gossip intertwined with concern.
The man says something. I cannot tell the tone; perhaps reproachful. He tells his wife to not be such a woman. I can hear her laugh. It’s an old running gag in their marriage; her need to gossip and his need to chide.
I imagine her sitting at the edge of the bed, smoothening imaginary creases on her nightgown. She rests her hand absentmindedly on her husband’s knee. Eventually, she gets into bed with him and drifts off to sleep.
The walls carry no sound; just me and my wandering imagination.
I imagine him sitting there looking at her. Not necessarily love; but definitely an enviable level of comfort. He can smell the oil in her head. Almond oil in a clunky bottle. All their years together and the small things that will never change.
The next day when I wake up, I know they’ve left.
Maybe I’ll run into them sometime. Another city, another wedding.
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