This short story by Bharali Angana explores love, relationships and marriage in a poignant manner layering it with tender emotions and sentiments.
The car sped noiselessly to the gate and stopped there for a few minutes, as if the driver was pondering which direction to take. Watching the car pull away, from the window, as usual, she felt her arms and legs stiffen with anticipation, hoping the car wouldn’t pull away.
This could be the day when she won the game she played every night, at this hour, at this window, willing the car to turn back and return to the house. But she lost. Again. After a minute or two, the car turned right and vanished. Her husband had probably weighed the places he could visit for a few minutes.
Everything returned to the way it was, had been, for a long time. The gate stood quiet and imposing. The guard sat in the guardhouse, a whistle in his lips and a walkie-talkie in his hands. His face was impassive. The guard was used to this night-time ritual. His sahib left every night. Sometimes, his sahib came back after a short one hour, sometimes after two or three hours. Sometimes not at all. The guard accepted this as normal. He never commented or alluded to it.