Antara Roy’s sensitive take on relationships through this short story, makes you wonder of the eternal mystery of whether we are made up of stories or are stories made up of us.
Mrinalini, or Matu, as she was fondly called, lived on the upper floor of a house that stood in the middle of a lush green compound. Most mornings, she sat by a window, and listened to the sound of rustling leaves, as Biren, their household help, watered the plants in the garden.
During such times, when the leaves in the garden were all aquiver with the drizzling water, Matu smiled wistfully, thinking of the days gone by. It wasn’t too long ago when she had sat close to the garden, her bare feet in the moist grass, her mind absorbed in the music of the rustling leaves.
Time flew by, ever so swiftly. Some years ago, at the incessant coaxing of their son, Rishabh, they had shifted to the newly built house on top. The house on the ground floor, left to itself, quiet and empty, was soon given a scrub down and rented out to a young couple who moved in almost immediately.