a work in progress

10 Years.

It’s been 10 years since we met.
Eight years since we got married.

Somedays we feel like siblings.
Somedays like lovers.
Somedays like fighters in a bullring.
I’m teasing with the red flag, you senselessly raging.

We know our buttons.
You know where to push and what makes me hurt and what makes me tender.

We look at young lovers and we laugh.
Yes, I’m sorry, but we do.
Because we know what those public kisses mean, we know what fingers interlocked mean, we know what her make up means and her paying means. We know where his hand is placed and what that means. We know the eagerness of young love and laugh at our younger selves.

Those dreams. Once separately yours and separately mine, now newly ours.
An ashram. Green school. A garden. A minimal home with next to no excess. A one level home so I can yell for you and I know you’ll hear me. That house on Grange Road hidden behind the greens. Children, yours and mine, ours. Two boys and a little girl. That jet plane. Those penthouse apartments in cities we love. Travelling the world with our little squirts. Spending our days with them and friends and family we love. Sauces new and spices old. Diamonds and pearls. Khadi and chappals. Podiums and billions.

Dreamers we are you and I.

And I am grateful. That our vows are for lifetime after lifetime. Even if you joke that you aren’t. I know you won’t have anyone but me. And I you.

Even if you don’t do flowers and will probably never ever gift me anything.
Even if you can be rude to people I love.
Even if I don’t do rotis and will probably never be that “honey-dinner-is-ready” type of woman.
Even if I’ve been rude to the people you love.
Even if we spend breakfasts in silence.
Even when you tell me she’s hot.
Even when I feel like he’s hot.
Even when we play the blame game.
Even if you tell me you aren’t coming home for dinner and I say that dinner won’t be made.

It’s you and I. We’re fighters you and I.

And for all our flaws, I only hope our children find a love like this.
Never fake.
Never perfect.
Never surreal.
Always ridiculously real.
Imperfect and somehow strong enough to go ten years.

Let’s hope for another sweet ten.




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1 Comment

  1. Hope you had a good one. Belated Happy Anniversary!

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