Theirs was a successful marriage.45 years and a few odd months. And when he sat in his rocking chair on dark evenings, that's what pulled him through. The thought of his wife coming home and making him a cup of tea. Watery and a tad too sweet- but some things just grow on you. Their only son was in Chennai. They lived in a small house in Mumbai, a blessing considering his failing eyesight and her weak back. He retired after a brilliant yet uneventful 30 years in a bank. His wife was the most respected teacher in a school nearby, and when she retired they had about 20 tearful children lining up in front of their house. With not much else to do with their time, they argued with each other. About inane things- like the news reader on TV or the rip on his old nightshirt. Sometimes he overslept in the afternoon and would wake up to find his wife watching documentaries on the polar bears or something just as inconsequential. But then at their age, everything was inconsequential. Sometimes he cooked, most times she did. On rare occasions they went to a nearby eat out and ate overpriced dosas amidst collegiate chaos. He smiled to himself thinking of how she would make him total the marks on the answer papers she'd check at school. Or how she'd worry about the seemingly heavy bags her students lugged to school.
And he realised how close they were, or how much she meant to him, when she decided to make a trip to her sister's place in Pune. She insisted she go alone, she'd manage it, she said. And the past few days he found himself aching for her tea, her presence and her constant nagging about his weight. It struck him that 45 years isn't forever- but it's close enough.
