January 17, 2013

Lost in Translation

What had happened to their unending conversation ?

For years she'd consulted him about her decisions,
occupied herself with his comforts, enjoyed his presence
beside her in bed awake or asleep, depended on his involvement
in every aspect of her life, felt rejected when he came home and,
burying himself in some tome of Ghalib, Tolstoy or Dostoevsky,
seemed to ignore her need for company, or responded to her
easy flow of anecdotes about work or life, with an abruptness
that sometimes bordered on cruelty.

But somehow - she knew this now - she had ceased to ask him about himself,
lost the questions she might put to him about his fears or his needs,
as if by doing so she would be an intruder in some very private place,
a hermitage with a firmly barred door.

Aamer Hussein - Another Gulmohar Tree

1 comment:

  1. Nobody I know can describe the breaking apart of love so beautifully. Heartbreakingly poignant.


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