end of a week

amid the sound of the crickets, the croaking of toads and the last drops of rainwater falling off the shingles, you also hear the singing of a shrill female voice. you know it is bollywood playback singing but can't place the voice. must be out of a hindi movie set in the most dramatic of sequences, you think.

the afternoon passes like it was waiting to be slapped aside quickly. you picked up Murakami and it was over.

when you got up, it felt like you'd lost your sense of time.

it is dark, the rain has stopped and Norwegian Wood lies against your stomach, your pink frames perched on it.

Kanchu sleeps on the floor.

saturday afternoons used to be different. they began slowly and stretched like the love-making that happened every afternoon in repeated cycles behind the unpainted door. when the cycles ended, the door suddenly opened into a dulling evening, striking your face with a sudden realization that another listless week had gone by.

you pick your things off the floor of your bedroom, spread things on the kitchen table to chop and prepare for another week. another week. you know it will bring back the painful back, the damp heart and the stretching of your soul. nevertheless, you start cooking.