A Writing Quill

The Sunday winter morning was cold and lazy in Delhi. Mr. Natwarlal routinely woke up at 6 A.M. He insisted that his wife, Archana, follow the same routine but she unabashedly denied his proposals. She continued her sleep with the zizz inside the soft blanket that lovingly hugged her from head to toe. The blanket was warm now from her body heat, which was in the end, folded by her feet towards the inside, while its other end was squeezed by her hands tucking it tightly with her body, restricting the slightest wind from entering inside. Natwarlal headed to the kitchen, murmuring something inaudible, to make his morning tea—the real reason he wanted his wife to follow this routine. He was a disaster inside the kitchen. The utensils would fall on the ground with a loud sound, and there would be constant commotion until he left the cooking area. Everyone would get disturbed, and he held pride in his non-dependency on anybody in the family. At about 6.30 A.M. he would go for his routine m...

The five girlfriends met for coffee dates; a ritual to be followed once every month, preferably on Sundays. First Sunday of August. Sunita was the last one to join today, ‘hey! My pretty ladies, wazz up?’ ‘Huh. You are late’, Lata retorted. ‘I am so sorry, girls. I was stuck with this long board meeting. I don’t have rest on Sundays, too. If not office, then video calls. I am just stuck with my job. It rules my life.’ Sunita spoke with this unceasing array of complaints that had engulfed her life for the past few years. ‘At least you have some productive thing to crib about. Look at me. I am this MTech from NIT and still slogging my ass from dawn to dusk taking care of each need of my in-laws, husband, and two children. Nothing pertains to me. It's only about them. And now if I tell him about joining a company, my husband recommends me a teaching job rather. I did take up a job a few months back. It offered me relaxation as I was working from home. But once I started my d...