It is only when the sun goes down that the house feels alive. Even her solitude glows like the lamp high on a plank on the wall, its light teasing a crisscross of twigs yearning for a spark in the fire pit. And when that yearning approaches fulfilment, suffusing loneliness with apprehension, cornstalks crackle in protest, their husks double up in pain and the singed tips bloody the rim – the fire gets lit, the smoke swirls around the rice pot and a cold breeze drifts in.
If his gaze so desires, it too can wander in through the window dotted with rectangular slits. The bottom half of the window, taken apart years ago to let more light in, would easily allow his hand in, proposing a touch, a caress that might render the bottle on the sill redundant, the bottle that brings her alcohol, batare, wringing away monotony, like him.
He sits on the deck, facing away. The evening is generous, radiating from his thin body as if he embodies it. Now and then he gets up, crouches under the eaves, walks to the edge of the courtyard and stares into the fog below. Things have been quiet for a long while now, but even silhouettes can be threatening, deceptive. He remains alert – or is just impatient, as he claimed to her. He is early.
'We brought you these.' He lifts up a black polythene bag as she appears on the doorstep. A pair of maroon slippers. 'For your delicious cooking,' he adds.