We lived in a house somewhere over the road that had no steep rises, no curves; absolutely flat and insipid as it could be. Insipid with blaring, cacophonous sounds that made music only in dissonance. The house was nothing like the house of my dreams. It had two bedrooms and a living room that you could use as well like a drawing room, and a kitchen that could be the pride of only the ones who had lived in crammed quarters their entire life. The house was not even like the one I grew up in; sprawling lawns, orange trumpet climbers, American Rose bushes and the structure that rose up to two stories. But I was happy. I was content doing things I never knew I would. Cleaning up the utensils, cooking up meals, doing the laundry, and even taking turns to clean the toilets. The man I lived in the house with could have got me a maid, but I refused. I sort of liked doing things for him and I realized why most women would give up their time, their habits, their tastes when they were in love. I cannot think of any other reason why I was not doing anything else. I do not remember saying a word to him. I do not remember if he said something as well. But I remember gazing into his eyes for really long periods of time. God, I do not remember even his face distinctly, just the eyes; like two embers glowing kindly amidst vague wheatish contours. It all just flips like a montage of pictures. Pictures that have an orangish tinge to them.

I think about that ordinary looking house over an ordinary street. I think about an address I do not know, a signboard that perhaps does not exist and a man whose eyes I have seen and loved only in my dreams.