through her childhood that is all they did before bed. her sister and herself would curl up, almost around each other, like two puppies of a litter snuggled, bodies touching, arms hugging and whisper to each other. they would tell each other about the day. about what they hoped it would be like, and how some things didn’t work out. and as the lights went off in the house, first the outside door light, then the drawing room light as their father switched off the tv, the passage light, and then their parents bedroom light, they would whisper, in the darkness that surrounded.

a yellow glow from the streetlamp just below her window would cast its shadows on their walls. and as those shadows of trees, and other things, moved on her wall, they would whisper. once her mother came in at night as she’d wanted to take something from their closet. she saw them curled into each other, and envious of that connection, sat on the bed next to them. what are you talking about, she’d asked. nothing, they’d replied. she sat for a few more minutes, but their bubble wouldn’t let her in. and soon she left.

as they grew up, they whispered about the boys they liked, and messed up romances, and cute first kisses. they spoke about growing up, about disliking breasts and the attention it got and a lot about boys. they didn’t talk about the future, they didn’t know what it held, but they whispered about today, about now, about pain, sorrow and happiness.

college got over, they went different ways, they continued calling every night to tell each other about their days. life took its own path, they followed, drifting apart, drifting away, drifting. marriage, babies… all of it happened. and then one day they were back home, sharing a room, as their babies were away at camp, their husbands in different cities at work, their parents, having switching of the drawing room light, passage light, and then the bedroom light. the darkness enveloped them. the glow from the streetlight filtered into the room. they turned to each other and began whispering. their bodies had changed, grown, older, bigger, different. they spoke, lying next to each other, bodies not touching… they spoke about love, about marriage, about ambitions and personal goals, and husbands and children and disappointments… one cried to the other, the other patted her cheeks and wiped off the tears. they spoke about failure, and fears, and worries, about their ageing parents, and life. about challenges they didn’t think they would ever overcome. then one of them spoke about that boy from school whom she liked. the other followed. they spoke about growing up, childhood, about their parents, about being sisters. about themselves.

the next morning, the mom walked into the room, they were curled into each other, bodies touching, hands over each other, both far away.

daily prompt: https://dailypost.wordpress.com/prompts/whisper/



they worked in the same office. it had been a whole month since they went their own way, he looked for another job, but the economy was in a slump. he came up to her table today, to borrow a stapler. she was the organised one, her life always organised in neat little boxes. he could never match her.

she wasn’t at her desk. he found the stapler, used it. as he kept it back the courier delivery boy came up to the desk, with a large bouquet. the delivery boy asked, will you sign for her? he stared, then turned away and walked back to his desk.

hours later she came back from her meeting. the large bouquet of geraniums was on her desk. she picked up the tiny card on it, turned it around, and read the message from her father. he always liked to send flowers on 8th october, the day her dog was born. it had been years since they lost him, but 8th october was special.

22 april

i haven’t made this into a habit yet, this writing everyday thing,
this concept of journalling that big writers talk about.
some big writers.
maybe it is important to do so, or maybe not.
i need to learn to give myself time to surf and time to read
and time to do. because otherwise i surf, and don’t do
i read and don’t do. i chill and don’t do… i…
doing is getting a beating because i rather not do and
just read, or surf, or chill… thwack thwack my head
bangs against itself as i wish i was someone with a
stronger will, a fighter spirit. but how can i wish for
something i am not. if i want to be then i must be
no one can make me.
these thoughts sound great on paper, in a poem,
as philosophy lectures, but doing is the problem.
it is easier to talk. so let’s.