July Morning

It was a sultry July morning, the sun was hiding behind the clouds peeping out once in a while like a blushing bride, people were jogging by the sea religiously as they do every morning, some of them faced the sea and murmured their prayers, some of them fed the pigeons, some of them just stared into the infinite horizon that stretched for miles…
It was a Friday, they woke up, smiled at each other, cuddled, and went back to sleep. Fifteen minutes later, the alarm clock jarred as they jumped out of their skin. It was time to make a hurried breakfast, time for a hurried shower, time to catch the auto so that they won’t miss the 8:04 local… until they remembered, “Hang on, we quit yesterday!” So it was time to roll back on the bed, it was time to make sensuous, ravenous love, it was time to devour each other…
For once there was no rush, no frenzied ironing of crumpled shirts, no burning the toast and no banging on the bathroom door. They walked by the sea, fingers locked together, her hair all over her face, his face flushed as he looked at her, and they kept walking… their feet playing with the waves, the water desperately trying to catch up with his rolled up jeans, the hem of her dress glistening with the hint of the sunlight. They walked barefeet inside the mosque in the middle of the sea, her scarf wrapped around her head, their shoes dangling from his hands, they stood quietly: nothing left to say, nothing left to pray for…
Back home, they had the entire day ahead of them, nothing left to look forward to, but they lived every moment of it: slowly, deliberately, experiencing every sensation, every movement, every touch- no longer going through emotions, no longer taking their time together as something inevitable… they took the longest shower of their lives, exploring each other hungrily, passionately, they cooked their favourite meal and the only meal they both knew how to make, made love in the kitchen and ate overcooked khichdi from the same plate, as it rained outside, their voices drowned by the thundering showers. They curled up under the quilt, watching their favourite movie for the last time, laughing and crying at the same time. They played their favourite game of scrabble for the last time and this time he let her win just to see her happy, just to see her triumphant smile after the numerous games that she had lost to him. As the overcast day gave away to the darkness, they didn’t switch on the lights, slowdanced to “Wonderful Tonight” as music flooded the room.
As they walked on the streets washed by the fresh showers, taking in all the little things, trying to carry with them the insignificant memories: the home that they had built together, the little kirana store just outside, the chaiwala, the laundry guy with his emergency miracles, the panipuriwala who made puchkas her way, the bumpers on the road which they had cursed every time they have tripped as they rushed for work, even the muddy pool where she had once slipped, soiled her clothes, and angrily lashed out at him until she had seen her reflection in the rearview mirror of a parked car, burst into laughter as he had kissed her there: with dirt dripping from their faces…
They made their way to the temple, climbed the 315 steps as he held her hand helping her up the stairs, stared at the view from the top, the glittering diyas on the steps: it was drizzling, the aarti being over, the crowd had dispersed and a handful of children wandered about not caring about the rain or their mother screaming behind them. They sat down, leaning against each other, listening to the occasional toll of the bells: they did not pray, they did not ask for anything, they were there to celebrate a new beginning as they ended their journey together, as they stood on the edge of the ledge hand-in-hand, as they smiled contentedly…. But it rained, and it kept raining…