voices

sleepless. alone in the lower bunk. visualising all that needs to get done in the morning, for us to make it to the two school buses on time. i should sleep, i think. it is necessary to sleep at the same time every night, i have read ever so many times, in so many different pages.

the satyanarayan pooja is over. the aratis have been sung. prasad distributed. most of the building folk have retired to their homes after the dinner, an annual ritual. just a few people linger on. they must be the organisers. taking care of things. evaluating the dinner. Hindustani classical music plays in the back ground. some chatter, some laughter carries through the rain, the shut windows and to my ears.

closer still are the sounds from the next room. it has been about ten days or so that they now sleep with their father. the blackster must have jumped on the bed. the children giggle and titter at the mock anger of their father. bedsheets are dusted loudly. pillows thumped.

little growling sounds from the dog. a stream of sweet chatter from the daughter. little pauses where the son absolutely must contribute to the conversation with a word or two interjected loudly, rashly. the father enjoys the attention. the children bestow their affection. the father is at ease. his kids happily comfortable.

i find it hard to concentrate on their little questions. their little stories. not at this time. never at ease while putting them to bed. i am paraniod they are not sleeping and have to wake up the next day. i don't want their sleepy morning tantrums. i am working out the next day. essential for them to make more little stories. ask more questions... i feel sleep coming. it is best this way.

for her Daffodil miss, on teacher's day