reminded me of those moments while listening to a western classical symphony when all sound is diminished: pianissimo, soft very soft, when you think there's no sound, but there is, under all the surrounding silence there it is, sweet, even, holding on resolute. and gradually the conductor picks up the thread of that barely audible strain and raises it all the way back to forte and crescendo and even above. that fine thread of sound, the dor of life, of continuity.
i listened for that, and i fancy in the few seconds i was granted to look at them in that state of bliss on the narrow ridiculous bed, i did hear its quiet melody. it was in the ease of their breathing, the relaxed lines of their bodies as they lay together; in sleep forgetting all their troubles, all their ego, their sturm und drang.
just minutes before they were sparring, he was quite irritable in his sleep deprived state. she had slumped deep into slumberland instantaneously at his bark of "so jao." after an initial "oye" and "what the f-" he'd cleaned up the mess, carried her to her bed, was not as gentle as you'd think he'd be when he saw her hand clutching his collar, was all set to tuck her in and leave the not so customary window way, when in her sleep she pulled his hand and with full ownership tucked it under her cheek refusing to let go.
he looked at her and knew he had to give in, he wanted to give in. he lay down without disturbing her and reached for her hand.
the music returned, growing louder but delicately. why does she sleep like a taekwondo queen here, he wondered in his head. why do you sleep like that here, you don't sleep like that at home, he asked her as she woke up. she was taken aback to find him before her, sharing her bed. caught her off guard. so what, she snapped back, it's my habit, i don't say anything to you about holding my hand and sleeping.
the charming discovery of his hand grasping hers. a funny joy just flitting across his face: i guess, it's a habit of mine.
the music moved up, only a notch though and as delightfully as the hint of a smile on her face at his "aadat".
he left with a forte command to her to go right back to sleep.
by the end of the episode the "amezing" building of a crescendo. where she grew more and more angry, she yelled, she threw things, she asserted she was the master of her own destiny, and all this in the board room of his newly acquired company. the angrier she got, the happier he looked, even offering to help her pick up and chuck the printer. he looked the happiest when she refused to give in to his threat and said she was not coming home with him, he could go ahead and do what he liked. in fact, he'd looked somewhat crestfallen when he misunderstood and thought she had taken his offer.
arnav singh raizada has worked a very asr plan. yell on, mrs raizada, in fact, now stomp out, while he holds the door open for m'lady.
just when you thought the climax had been reached, crash bang, another slap. how dare you call the lady "item", she is my wife.
but who can blame the hapless soul for not getting that? who passes indecent proposals to their own wife via staff? who razes their wife's family home to the ground? who cuts off the electricity and water in their wife's home where three elderly people live?
why, the man with a plan, of course. over whose hand her fingers curl without thinking. it's such a habit.
i am not imagining things, there is music playing beyond the silence, just where the pot of water waits.
yeh shaam mastani, madhosh kiye jaay, mujhe dor koi khinche teri ore liye jaaye. ta ra ra ra ra lala la la lahmm hmm hm hmm hmhmmm
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