She woke up with a start. It was only three in the evening. Her husband and son were sleeping peacefully next to her. Ever since he had joined the new office, these lazy sunday afternoon naps had become a rarity. Six days a week – ten hours a day had exhausted him and it showed. She traced the wrinkles on his face with her finger lightly. ‘Too early’, she thought. The more she looked at the two most important people in her life, the more restless she became. It was difficult to watch them lying still – and quiet. She had this sudden urge to wake them up. She had to talk. About so many things. About the maid who was giving her a lot of trouble lately. About the daily bargaining of vegetable prices that left her drained out. About the never ending cycle of feeding an cleaning the baby. About his mother sharing some family gossip. About her long pending plans to complete post-graduation. ‘Oh! I am dying to talk!’. The confession was startling even to her, almost bringing a smile to her face. She was never known for her ‘talking skills’. A quiet child, she found comfort in reading. She would go and read each and every written word in her vicinity. Even the stale news on the newspaper bags. She would read and re-read them, lingering on each word as if she wanted to feel and experience its warmth. And no, talking was not her forte.
But now, at this very moment, she felt choked with words. Words that lied dormant for all these years. She wanted to laugh out loud, and let them all come out. And despite the urgency, she wanted them to come out slowly so that she could savor them all – just like the written words in her childhood.