The alarm does not wake me up. The chirping of birds does and it’s not the irritating cuckoo crying out hoarse. I shut off the alarm to avoid its jarring shrill noise in the beautiful ambience. The bhajans from the nearby basti have started and I don’t need the clock to tell me its 5:30 in the morning. I see you wrapped up in a blanket, huddled closely and smiling in your dreams. I stand in our east-facing balcony watching the rising sun. Its rays are spreading on a fresh morning sky and the holy sight makes me bow my head in reverence. I draw the curtain lest the sunray disturb your sleep. I see the milkman arriving and I rush to open the door before he rings the bell, lest the bell wakes you up.

I make tea and bring it in your favorite cups – remember the ones we bought for your birthday at your insistence, though they were beyond my limits of purchase? And then I get ready to do the thing I hate most – to wake you up. I take the utmost care that the change over from bliss to reality be as smooth as possible, but always end up jerking you out of your sleep. How I hate myself, but in a moment you are up and smiling – the smile more beautiful than the sun’s spreading rays. “Good morning,” two sweet words from your mouth and the day surely cannot begin better.

Your face, fresh from a deep sleep almost like a baby, with your hair tussled up and the fluffy sweater pulled over your nightgown make me feel as if I could sit there, watching you for time immemorial.

But I have to go and you push me into hurrying things. While I shave, you polish my shoes and lay down clothes almost bossing over me to wear whatever you chose. I wish I could argue, but I know it’s futile. I have long given up arguing with you but it disturbs me to be served thus. Once you tried to shave off my two-day old stubble and ended up cutting my chin. Instantaneously, you dropped the razor and caught your ears. What else could I do, but hug you leaving a red mark on your dimpled cheek?

As I take my bath, the smell of breakfast makes me hurry. As I struggle with the tie, your dexterity makes it so simple. And then your womanhood gives way to the girlish innocence, as you demand more money or a new dress. Its month-end and still I cannot refuse. My reward is a gleeful, “Thank you” and a peck on the cheek.

As I get down and start my walk to the bus stop, I see you standing in the balcony, waving me good bye and that sweet innocence is what gives me strength to carry out the rigmarole of routine matters at office, to survive a day out in the forest before I return back to our heaven in the night.

Sometimes, when I return early in the evening, you make a cup of tea and we both stand in our West-facing balcony watching the red ball of fire go down and with it taking down a few red clouds, orange winds into the deep darkness. At times, you talk about the newspaper bills, the grocery shopkeeper cheating you, about your professors or your fellow-students in college. I patiently hear everything trying to chide you to be more serious or scolding you in an authoritarian way that lacks any anger. I patiently waddle through your gibberish before asking the question you dread the most – about your studies. My stern gaze doesn’t hold on as you give me one of those childish charming smiles and get off to cook dinner.

I try to help you but you shout at my meddling presence. And I am relegated to the ranks of a spectator who watches you go about the cooking and marvel at it as if it were a piece of poetry or art.

Dinner done, I come to help wash the dishes but as always you find fault with my washing. Either the oil stains have not been scrubbed off cleanly or the soap stains have not been washed properly. Again I am a spectator.

At night, our customary walk takes us past the same road laden with different trees. I try to explain you the different trees and how to recognize a chikoo, a guava and a custard apple tree. Sometimes, I point to the lone banyan tree at the corner or the couple of mango trees standing with their branches engulfed amongst each other as if in perpetual embrace. I tell you the various different varieties of roses and hibiscus, but they don’t enthrall you, nor does the smell of the cow dung from the cowshed at the corner remind you of my native place as it does me. You yawn out loud and that’s the signal for me to retrace my steps.

Back to the comfortable ambience of our home, you get into your nightgown and pull up the sweater while I change into my old tattered lungi that you have wanted me to throw away for a long time, but I guard it like a woman guards her virginity.

And then I do what I look forward to each night. Hold you in my arms, caressing your short silky hair and sing your favorite song –

“Dheere se aaja ri ankhiyan main, nindiya aaja re aaja, dheere se aaja”

How many times, have I wanted to play the cassette but you always find my voice better than that of the melody queen. How sweet of you but my voice cannot put me to sleep, how can it put you to sleep? But you wont agree, isn’t it? You want the same song from this ‘besura’.

But before I complete the song, you are fast asleep and I have again to face the terrifying task of disentangling you from myself and to cuddle you up in your blanket. Thankfully, I manage the ardent task and see your smiling, content, happy face. I yearn to kiss your forehead and thank you and bless you, but I am scared of waking you up. So I retire with a book to my study.

Today is Raksha Bandhan and my empty wrist beckons you.

Wish you were here.

But you are not, and all that is here is me, myself and my solitude.