I’m wondering about the weekend we just had. You sprawled on the couch, oblivious to the hour, the maid’s cacophony with the vessels and the child’s constant demands. Me pottering about the house, picking up a discarded toy, a piece of puzzle, checking if the cook has the masala right and simmering in my private hell.

What happened to us I wonder, where is the easy talk gone? Where is the conversation that wasn’t an argument? Where is that exciting common thread that keeps us bound and is not called a child?