Dabara Tumbler

14. Dabara Tumbler

Himani picked up the aluminium bucket and tilted it over herself. As the finishing remnant of warm water streamed down her body, she placed the empty bucket, bottom-side-up in its place and grabbed the khadi towel from the towel bar.

Since she was used to taking baths before calling it a night, even with such water scarcity in the city, she could hardly refrain herself. Tonight, especially after enduring dragging, long hours of journey, she felt she'd better-off bathe before jumping into that endearing, comfy bed of hers.

She was, perhaps, yearning to get to bed tonight completely aware of having a favourable night, with sleep being friendlier than those in the past few months.

And she did not regret her abrupt confession—no, she really didn't.

Neither did she wish for it to have happened in a different, more prepared, a bit more even-handed manner.

Had it not been the way just as tonight's, it would not have been with such forthright candor.

Had she planned and prepared for the happening of it, she doubted it would not have been this direct and honest.

And that alone made it finer than what she would have done if she'd planned it ahead of time.

Slipping into an oversized, well-worn t-shirt and a pair of cotton trousers, Himani tossed the pile of dirty clothes in the laundry basket, and looked over at the neat, sleek, welcoming expanse of her bed longingly, venting a lengthy sigh.

Turning the lights off, she lumbered to her bed, consciously without knocking into her things on the way. The bed dipped as she sat atop, and loosened the newly washed, clean smelling blanket over her frame.

Sprawled on her back, Himani's hand clutched her t-shirt over her chest that gently heaved with every breath she took, as she watched the fan spin for a long, listless moment.

This feeling—appeasingly feathery, and relieving—was outright unfamiliar to her, but she liked it. She liked that she could be liberal around him, and not that overly conscious and perpetually frustrated, transient stranger that she had become in the past few weeks before she went out of town.

To Himani, spending time with Raghav—fifteen minutes of having breakfast and coffee in the morning, and twenty minutes of dinner time—were exceptionally dearest. She'd always revelled in the sweet surge their brief talk left her with. Even after a demanding, enervating day, she'd go to bed with a smile because of the time they'd spent together.

Ever since she began being extremely cautious around him, feigning to play it cool, it debilitated her. Even though they were eating together, having light-hearted discussions, and exchanging about each others' days, Himani felt deprived of the exhilaration she'd derive out of it, once she realized she was surreptitiously in love with him

It was troublesome. She was always too preoccupied to be delighted in the present moment. Or too constrained in not blurting anything out to him, not being the person she originally was—daunting her more than not being able to tell her feelings out.

Taking account of this evening, she could've smoothly suspended his question and the talk by telling—lying—it was her tiresome journey and the events happened in it. That could have eventually ended up in having simpler, and more complacent chit chat on what they'd missed in those two weeks and then retiring to bed.

She sure had enough time to dilute the situation. It would've been easier. But then, within these walls of solitude, she'd have hugged herself, shaking, lamenting to herself about her disposition without being able to fall asleep even with so much physical exhaustion, tonight, one more time.