The Beauty of Being Alone

A flurry of departing  footsteps, the sound of a car reversing, the clank of the bolt over the old Iron Gate and then silence. I am still in the early morning rush hour mould of hurrying, almost scampering from one room to the kitchen and then to another room and back to the kitchen and then to...

It takes a few minutes to register that there is no longer any need to hurry. I am alone . A surge of freedom envelops me. The sound of silence  is  mellifluous .I stand still so that the flapping sound of my night gown stops .The house is like a zone of silence. I look around -hey! the rooms suddenly seem to have grown; they look so big. Space -all mine. I sit on the carpet and close my eyes. I breathe in and then out - in and out - slowly. Somewhere in my subconscious it registers that I am doing pranayam -what I see ( in between scampering) the husband doing daily. I give pranayam the status of like . Fifteen minutes later I feel sufficiently oxidised and get up . A bath seems a good idea - a nice lonnng warm water bath . While testing the warmth of the water  I find myself humming - the realization immediately makes me stop- I am a terrible singer. But then comes the blissful awareness of aloneness-and the humming resumes interspersed with some singing. Status- like.

I survey the contents of the refrigerator .Porridge ? no .Too healthy and husbandish. Mushroom and cheese toast ? no- too children-ish. I want my own breakfast .Five minutes later I am sitting at the table-2 golden brown toasted toast-one dripping with melted butter and the other smothered with my childhood favorite-guava jelly in front of me. On the side is a cup of strong coffee-with just a dash of milk. Status-  love.

Can bliss ever be everlasting? Nah. Bliss is ephemeral -like a beautiful dream , like the whiff of a stranger's perfume ,like the sound of applause . The phone rings . It breaks everything -the silence, the aloneness, the languor , the bliss. It is when I have already picked up the phone that I realize that I have done a Peter Keating. I didn't walk to the phone slowly. I half ran to it -eagerly.

It is the husband. Just a follow up  to tell me to follow up on the carpenter. He has to fix the loose ply in the office .The call ends. I glance at the inbox. One from  the daughter. College profs on a flash strike. She is on her way home. Could I please have a slapdash lunch ready?

It promises to be a normal day.