“Baas setiki thau” says Baba

as he sits luxuriously on the chair,

as Maa serves him rice for dinner.

Maa sits on the bare floor to have hers.

Maa doesn’t know what having food from one plate is.

Baba and Maa don’t sleep on the same bed.

Baba comes home late,

takes a bath, has dinner and hits the bed.

Maa goes to sleep late. She sleeps on the floor.

Maa doesn’t know what cuddling is.

As I shuffle through my parent’s marriage album,

I (finally) find that one picture

where Baba is hugging Maa from behind.

I blush.

A dead smile spreads across Maa’s face

killing all the hundreds of thousands of nerves

running across her heart,

just the way a missile flies through the streets of Syria

targeting all the kids on the way.

Both results in death.

Maa doesn’t know what surprise hugs are.

“21 days of Lockdown” announces the government.

“21 days inside the house with my parents!” I panic.

“504 hours with Baba.” Maa panics.

Baba has a loud voice.

I complain about it often.

Maa doesn’t.

Maa has practiced and mastered the art of shushing herself.

I go through our pictures in my gallery.

Your arms wrapped around my neck,

just like the white tie wrapped around Baba’s neck

and an invisible rope around Maa’s neck,

is my favorite one.

“Marital rape is a non-criminalised crime in India.”

I read out to my parents in an agitated tone.

Baba looks unaffected.

Maa remains silent.

Every night,

Maa takes her heart out, squeezes it in her palms

and pours out her tournaments into Baba’s Ash tray.

Every morning,

Maa wears tons of make up

to blend the purple stains, at the corner of her lips,

with her fair complexion.

Maa is beautiful. I say and she blushes.

Maa is beautiful. Baba say and she freightens.