Past 10:00 PM.
As is typical in most Indian towns and cities in the 80s/90s, a mandatory power outage, unjustly called 'load-shedding' is in effect. The only candle in the room flickers to the occasional gust of wind blowing in through the door left ajar. The fenced veranda outside the door is cold; not discomforting, just chilly enough to warrant the glass of rum in dad's hand. And here, at the foot of his chair where I've comfortably buried myself between his legs, wrapped in one of mom's old sarees, shielding myself from the cold and from mom's calls from within the kitchen; in this veranda, amidst the gentle rustling sounds from the coconut trees and the tinkling of the vessels from inside the house, watching the clothesline sway to the tune of the melodious Hindi songs of yore as if magically in concert with the dancing shadows cast by the timid flame, I dream of the years to come.
And no, I do not see myself sitting alone, counting each moment as it passes by, awaiting this selfsame moment to come by, now.
