I’m in the kitchen, cooking dinner. The smell of spices is overwhelming and makes my eyes water. I wipe my eye with one hand, and continue stirring the pot with the other. My heartbeat dances excitedly, and I look at the round wine colored clock in the kitchen, which reads “17:26.” Only a few more minutes until he comes home. I smile.

The doorbell rings.

Smiling, I rush to the door and open it.

“You’re finally ho-“ I stop talking as I see that he’s in the middle of one of his ‘important phone-calls’ as usual. He waves a hand at me, as if trying to explain how preoccupied he is. He doesn’t even say hello.

“Yes, confirm the meeting for 6pm tomorrow. Okay, I’ll speak to you later. Bye.”

“How was work?” I ask, taking off his suit jacket and placing it on the armchair.

“Same as usual.” He always speaks to me in as few syllables as possible, and avoids eye contact.

“Dinner is almost ready, you can go change and then we can eat together.”

Dinner is the only time of the day when I get to speak to my husband. Although its usually me talking and trying to make conversation. He speaks in a clipped tone and focuses more on the food on his plate than on me. Still, it’s better than nothing.

I try to make the most of it.

“I had a big lunch today, so you go ahead. I’ll eat something before going to bed.”

“But I made your favorite dishes today: biryani and kheer for dessert.”

He gives me a sarcastic smile and rolls his eyes. “I said I’m not hungry. You can eat.”

“Okay.” I go back into the kitchen and clean up. Before I know it, a salty stream of tears escapes my eyes. I hurriedly wipe them. I don’t want him to see. I look at my hand and I see streaks of black. I had lined my eyes with kajal earlier, hoping that he might take notice and compliment me.

Coming out of the kitchen, I notice how quiet our house is. So quiet that you could probably hear our hearts beating if you listened close enough. Even the silence begs to be spoken to. But in this house, there are no conversations.

Only questions.

With a sigh, I walk into the bedroom. He looks up at me from where he sits on the bed and slowly says, “You were crying, weren’t you?”

“I wasn’t.” I look away, half expecting him to ask why I was upset.

“Well, if you say so.”

I grab a fluffy towel and go into the bathroom for a shower. The hot water on my skin feels relaxing; I feel the tension of the day slowly disappearing as I stand there for what seems like hours. It surprises me to think that we’ve only been married for 3 years, yet the silence has captured the walls of our house, soon enough.

When I come out of the bathroom, he is fast asleep, his facial expression that of a child’s. His mouth slightly open, the edges of the blanket trailing off the bed and onto the floor. I place the blanket on him and wonder where everything went wrong.