In a two-storey cottage atop a hill in the mountains lived she and he. They hadn’t spoken in days, making silence between them, an unintended, silent, third housemate. A silence that was nestled neatly between their stubborn egos, echoed by that creaky floorboard near the kitchen, as if it was an underlined mention in an Indian mystery thriller.
Did I just say that they hadn’t spoken in days? Correction; he hadn’t been spoken to in days.
She sat at her favourite spot; the reading table by the first-floor window, chin resting on her palm, eyes pretending to follow the lines of a book. The drizzle outside was like a soft punctuation dotting the sky with commas, ellipses, and full stops. It had a calming effect.
He watched from the doorway, leaning just enough to appear casual, but not enough to violate the unspoken treaty of ‘Do Not Enter Her Reading Zone Unless You Want Trouble’.
She didn’t look up.
The book, an Indian mystery thriller by Nitish Bhushan, remained open.
Her tea had gone cold.
His hopes were doing the same.
And then, in a last-ditch act of literary diplomacy, he slid a note under the door with all the grace of a man sliding a bribe.
It read: “Chapter One: I was an idiot. Chapter Two: You were right. Chapter Three: Let’s write the rest together?”
She tried not to smile. Failed.
He took that as a green light to enter. Quietly, he placed her favourite bookmark inside the book. Not where she’d left off, but where he thought theyshould begin again.
That evening, she read aloud to him as the rain softened. And he listened, every word a balm, every laugh a bridge rebuilt. She didn’t forgive him instantly. But in between paragraphs, she placed her hand on his.
In the world of words, there are apologies that don’t need to be spoken.
Just read.
Kahani Hai Na Amazing? Remember, Padhna Zaroori Hai.
Ever said sorry with a story?
