The old chair

The vintage old chairs sitting in our Verandah looks so beautiful with the lush green leaves and the creepers. The flowers have finally started to bloom and take over the house with their soothing scent. The air is humid, suggesting a light shower. It is a dull evening, and I can already smell the Pakoras from the Mehta’s window. Silly old Mr. Mehta. I bet he still doesn’t care about his insane cholesterol levels. My books have been stacked neatly in the small library we built for ourselves. Today I finally found the time to clean the shelf. Something you always pushed me into doing. I took the book which I have read a billion times already. I love to sink into its story. It sounds so much like ours. I sit on the dusty vintage old chair and place my half-broken glasses before my eyes. I am too lazy to make tea today though. The plants look beautiful with the mild drizzle now. The smell of the mud is overpowering my senses. I flip open the book and read about the tale of this boy, and girl who met ages ago, and fell in love. I rejoice reading about their little house, and their children and how they grew old together. Their struggles, their joys and accomplishments. Everything about their story is so peaceful and calming, but for the end; where the girl’s wrinkled fingers were always trying to find the boy’s hand, but in vain. And she would give up, sulking over the dull evening and eventually fall asleep on the chair of her verandah.