Sixth. Words: Ghatotkacha, Rumsfeld and Banian
He didn’t miss her all the time. He had no time for such languid emotions. But in the morning while in the shower, he suddenly realized that her black bra was no longer hanging where it usually would, dripping water on the tiles. Slipping into his banian, he quickly says a prayer. This Gatotkacha of emotions, sleeping otherwise, woken only by sudden visions of her in this familiar house. He calls softly to the dog, “Abishtu”. Abishtu flops his ear open. “Do you miss Akila?”.
The softness of a banian is more valuable than the newness of it. It grows soft as it ages, much like Grandmother’s cheeks. A small hole underarm is held like a close secret. Akila, he thought, how much I love you. He walks into the living room. He looks at Raghavan deftly scooping out idlis while nodding towards the newspaper, “Rumseld and Michael Jackson wedding pictures. All over the papers. They both look so good in Pink.” Akila, you hate pink. Artists he thought have almost-ugly hands. But Akila’s are nice. Raghavan keeps mumbling, “He gave Jackson half of Iraq as a Wedding Present.”
“Raghavan,” he wanted to say “Fuck Rumsfeld. I miss your wife.”.