I am again having my cigarette and tea at one of the tea shops near SBI, Dhakuria. From the corner of the left eye I catch a glimpse of an apple green silk sari. 'Exactly like the one my wife has,' I tell myself.
It is my wife.
It is strange to watch ones own wife, with whom one has shared twenty-five years, as one watches a stranger. She is tense and anxious to get somewhere in connection with her work as a direct selling agent of skin care products. A minibus appears and hesitates hoping to get some more passengers. She walks up to it. Does she ask the conductor something? The exchange doesn't seem to be satisfactory. I am concerned. I have seen her only at home as a girl who needs a lot of care. The smallest irritant upsets her. (If only I had noticed the warning before I had married her, 'Fragile! Handle with care.') And here she is out in the city. But I regain myself. I know she is adequately capable of looking after herself with that tongue of hers.