I had a dream. Yours.

                     I had a dream. Yours.

           {Sketch credit-Amol Bhosale(Dy.                     Superintendent of Land Records)}

           I had a dream. I have rehearsed it in my mind so many times.
           I have a house at the foothills of the almighty Sahyadri. A single storey house. Surrounded by the trees, many and different-a few flowering ones. Because she loves them.
           My wife goes to work, kissing me on the forehead. I stand in the balcony, waving to her as she closes the old rusted iron gate of our compound wall. As she gets out of sight, i get on with my pen and paper. For the whole day, I think, I imagine, I see and finally I write... alphabets, words, lines, pages, poems, stories, books.

           Then the distant horizon becomes a shade of  yellow and orange. Even the waves washing the shore wear those shades.
            I put my pen down though all the other processes are ON. Three cups of coffee. I have made them. I love doing it. I smell of coffee, I smell of her. She is at the  door. I know it. The Watch, hanging on the wall, it confirms.

         She heads directly to the balcony. Sits on my chair. Picks up the first page from the left lower drawer. I hand her a cup of coffee and sit in front of her as she is about to begin reading. She looks in my eyes, for a moment and more, and i look in her eyes.               The exchange of i dont know what.......incomprehensible. she takes a sip- from the cup, from the page-of the coffee, of the words-both made for her. My eyes are fixated on her face, unmindful of the coffee getting cold. Her eyes brighten, her cheeks turn pinkish, holding her smile while the mild wind makes a strand of her hair brush lightly against her face.
            She keeps reading, unmindful of the coffee getting cold. In between she keeps looking up, catching me staring right at her. Each time she does that her smile gets broader. She finishes reading and gets on with her coffee. Then we take a third cup-half each. She says nothing .I hear everything she does not say. As she leaves the balcony, taking with her the empty cups and a filled heart, she taps on my shoulder and whispers in my ear-"you are crazy". Its a routine but it never gets boring.
                                             -Amol Mandave