Used to

It is white outside. Unnaturally bright. It had snowed heavily last night, conveniently covering the yellow in the trees, the peeling paint of the window ledge, dents on the old Maruti 800 parked in the driveway. All the flaws hidden behind a curtain of fresh white snow.

It is not a sight I am used to. But there have been a lot of things happening that I am not used to of late. Like the man lying beside me in the bed, sleeping peacefully, with an arm over his eyes, blocking the brightness streaming through the window. I am not used to his mustard yellow pyjamas. I am not used to his loud laugh. I am not used to his too cheerfulness. How can anyone be this cheerful all the time? Isn't it exhausting? What was I thinking when I agreed to marry him? He is not him. I know I and him couldn't be together. And I had gotten very used to him. Him with the frown lines dotting his forehead when he concentrated, his wardrobe full of grays and blacks, his waking me up before sunrise. Yes, I had gotten very used to him. But now I am on my honeymoon with a man who is a stranger to me in every sense.

 I hurriedly wipe the tears as he stirs, rubs his eyes and yawns loudly. And now he is looking at me, smiling his smile, the smile that I am not used to. I get busy pretending to look for something in my suitcase as he gets up and stretches. I am not used to the presence of another man in my room. I don't know what to do and run to the bathroom, in search of refuge. But I can't hide in here forever. After some time, which I hope isn't too long, I step in the room again. He smiles brightly as he sees me. He has made me tea. He reminds me that it's my parents' anniversary as he dials their number.

I smile involuntarily. I am not used to all this. But maybe, I can be.

As I look outside the window again, I see the deep green of the pine tree, the cheerful red of the old Maruti and the old world charm of the window ledge, peeking from under the sheet of snow.