It was a lazy Sunday afternoon. Humidity is not something he enjoys, reminds him of their Bangalore days. The needless quarrels that plagued his marital life, then, have largely been subsumed by a bitter resignation. As he ponders pensively at a puddle of water through his window, the daydream is interrupted by a mundane observation. “The water was green,” thinks he. “Is it the mossy growth underneath or a reflection,” just as he descends into another one of his self-gratifying attempts at perceiving metaphors in the mundane, his lovable wife starts pestering him to start washing the dishes.
He loves to daydream, and hates reality. It might sound as a clichéd feeling but it is a sincere one. This frustration at reality has started to define him; at least that is what he thinks. However, his near and dear feel he’s plain lazy. Daydreaming and the ability to live in an imaginary universe, sans drugs, is not a gift everyone is bestowed with. He loved contemplating on the mossiness and loved to wishfully forget his colorlessness.
As he starts to scrub the non-stick pan, his feet start to fornicate with the mat. The roughness of the mat keeps him calm, grounded and gratified. A pathetic existence, hollow and colorless; tears start to roll. She walks towards him, “ Is this gonna be the end of the cold war, are we gonna hug and kiss”, wonders he. No, complaints start to flow; as he turns a deaf ear, his mind focuses on the puddle of water. “Reflection, reflection, keep claiming; my mossiness is within me! It is I! You can’t take that away from me”.