The blue curtains arrived on a Friday afternoon. The delivery man handed the package to Meera, scribbled something on a piece of paper, and disappeared down the stairs before she could fully unfold the fabric.
She stood in the living room for several minutes.
The colour was lighter than she had expected.
While Meera was absorbed in her thoughts, Arjun wandered in, loosened his tie and placed his office bag on the sofa.
“More curtains?”
She glanced up.
“Oh, when did you come?”
“When you were in deep conversation with your curtains.”
She brushed the remark aside and asked, “What do you think?”
Arjun looked at the curtains in Meera’s hands. “They’re nice.”
Meera frowned, “Nice, isn’t an opinion.”
Arjun shrugged, “Yes, it is. Why not?”
“No, it isn’t.” Meera insisted.
“Fine, I like them.”
She nodded. Then she asked, “Are you sure?”
Arjun smiled, “That question again.”
By evening, the curtains had found their place by the window.
Devi wandered into the room, carrying a sketchbook. “Mamma, where did the old curtains go?”
“I changed them because I liked these.”
Devi stared at her for a moment.
“Then why are you asking everyone whether they like them?”
Meera opened her mouth to answer.
Nothing came out.
Children had a strange talent for asking inconvenient questions.
The pressure cooker whistled, announcing the start of the day in the household, while cumin seeds crackled and the knife struck the chopping board in a steady rhythm.
Meera’s mother-in-law, Rekha Ji, entered just as Meera was garnishing the daal with coriander leaves.
“You’ve been here since eight o’clock.”
“Yes, just about to finish. You know, I like cooking.”
“You also like worrying.”
Meera laughed.
The older woman dipped a spoon into the bowl and tasted the dal.
“Hmm.”
Meera looked up at once.
“You have used garlic this time.”
Without a second thought, Meera asked,” Should I make another batch?”
Her mother-in-law caught her hand.
“I didn’t say that, Meera. I simply noticed that you had prepared it differently this time, and you were already willing to change it.”
Meera smiled sheepishly.
“I thought—”
“I know exactly what you thought.”
Rekha ji placed the spoon in the sink and said, “Learn to trust your instincts too.”
Arjun, while rubbing his sleepy eyes, didn’t miss the opportunity to remark, “My goodness.”
Rekha ji raised an eyebrow.
“What?”
“You’ve finally said it.”
“Said what?”
“That she has spent years collecting opinions as though they were examination marks.”
Meera rolled her eyes.
“Very funny.”
Meera returned to her cooking, but the words weighed heavily on her mind.
A few days later, Meera published a story on her blog.
She sat down with a cup of tea, allowing herself a moment of satisfaction.
Every now and then, she refreshed the page. There were three views. She refreshed again after some time; Seven views….Twelve views.
Arjun walked past.
“How many now?”
She looked up suspiciously.
“You don’t need to sound so pleased.”
“I’m not pleased.”
“You are.”
“I am merely observing.”
She shook her head.
She shut the laptop and went about the day.
That night, just before going to bed, she couldn’t help but open her laptop once again.
She was delighted to see three new comments.
-“Beautiful writing.”
–“Wonderful work.”
–“The writer has surely penned a heartfelt story, but somehow the ending feels hurried.”
Meera read it once. Then again. Then a third time.
Arjun sighed, “Ah.”
“What?” Meera asked.
“That face,” Arjun said in a voice filled with sarcasm.
“What face?”
“The one you make when people disagree with you.”
“They didn’t disagree.”
“Then why are you frowning?”
She closed the laptop.
“Because I made sure the story was perfect, but it seems it isn’t after all.”
Arjun smiled knowingly, “That is just one perspective, Meera. You cannot let a single comment overshadow all the effort you have put in or all the appreciation that has come your way.”
Meera nodded, but both knew she would need time to come to terms with it.
The next morning, Meera carried a watering can onto the balcony.
The jasmine plant in the corner was in bloom.
Professor Sen, who lived next door, was watering his own plants.
“Your jasmine is blooming,” he said.
“They’ve finally bloomed,” Meera said with a sigh.
“Did you pull at the leaves to make them grow faster?”
She laughed.
“Of course not.”
“Did you stand beside them every hour and ask whether they approved of your gardening skills?”
“That would be ridiculous.”
“Exactly.”
Professor Sen pointed towards the tiny white flowers.
“You gave them water when they needed it, sunlight when they lacked it and support when they bent under their own weight.”
He smiled. “Growth has its own pace.”
Meera stared at the flowers. “So you’re saying people are like plants?”
“No. Plants are much easier.”
Meera broke into soft laughter that drifted away with the breeze.
That night, she stood quietly beside the window. The curtains moved gently in the breeze.
Arjun appeared behind her.
“So?”
“So what?”
“Have you decided?”
“About what?”
“The curtains.”
She smiled.
“I have.”
“And?”
“They’re staying.”
“Because everybody likes them?”
She looked back at him.
“No.”
A breeze entered the room.
“Because I do.”
PS: This post is part of #BlogchatterBlogHop
Cerebration 