The kids we will never have

Why can’t I stop fantasizing about the kids we will never have? It is so wrong but oh how cute they will be! If it’s a boy he will surely have your spiky hair which stands up all over your head whenever it gets tousled. It would be so adorable and that is the reason my heart melts every time I see a spiky haired little baby boy. It reminds me of the son we will never have. 

Our kids would love deep and hard, just like their parents. They would feel everything ten times harder than other people do and our boy might keep it all bottled up like you do. Hopefully our girl would be a bit more like her mommy and talk about things!

They would write adorable, ardent poems for their first crush and hide them from the prying eyes of the world. A closely guarded secret. And also because they probably are terrible at flirting like us. And also because writing about their feelings is second nature, just like it is to us. I wish I could tell them it was your writing that first drew me to you in a more wholesome manner. I always wanted a man who could write, especially poems!

Our babies might be completely different from us. But still inextricably be us. At their very core they would be a mix of both you and I.

They would be beautiful.

They would never come to be.

Mastani speaks

“I’d rather not be mentioned at all,
Than be a footnote in the history of your life
A footnote, in our story
A number
A point of reference meant solely for explanatory purposes
I’d rather be forgotten
Than be remembered as a gift of thanks
A commodity if you may
Because I was much, much more than that in your life
I was, at the very least, the mother of your child”

I was prompted to write this after watching the Hindi movie ‘Bajirao-Mastani’ and proceeding to read more on the complex relationship between the two where I discovered that historians know very little about Mastani and she was more or less a footnote

This completely depressed me.

This morning

There’s a subtle shift of air around everything, where everything is the same as it was before but infinitesimally different. There are little signs of a man occupying this space. Like your watch on my nightstand. The ever lingering scent of your cologne every time I step in to the bathroom and invading every little corner of the bedroom, on the sheets, even in my hair. A dress shirt crumpled in a corner which I absently pick up and pile in with the week’s laundry. My behaviour, my habits. How I seamlessly integrate your presence into my life.

I sit on the edge of the bed and run my thumb over and over along the metal strap of your watch. In the background I hear you taking a shower before work. I press the watch to my lips not even knowing why I’m doing that. It’s just that these tiny things, the small but sudden realisations, they make my heart swell.

You’re really here. Claiming your part in my life. Making it ours.