A cup of Chai.

“Shall I make tea? It’s 11.” She asked him.

“No, I’ll make my own later.  Go and have it yourself.” He replied and rolled to the other side, pulling the blanket over his face.

She walked out the door quietly. She would never make chai just for herself. She always liked to make and have chai with him.

She stepped into the kitchen and started cooking. For him, for the kids, for his parents. She did not eat that day.

He walked in the kitchen without a sound, at noon. He asked her to let him make his tea and breakfast. She moved aside. Her eyes glued to the phone screen and silent earphones pushed in her ears to avoid any kind of conversation or eye contact.

But she wanted love. She wanted him to realize she existed.

“Did you ask me if I had tea?” She questioned politely.

“Do you want tea?” He responded.

“Yes.” She replied reluctantly.

The tea was made and left in the aluminum vessel,  over-brewed and spilled over the sides.

He had his breakfast silently, she was left with an empty cup, tears, a mess, and some tissues to clean it all.

Quarantine had got all the family members close, but not closer.

The mundane routine will repeat every day. Like a cycle.

Till this ends.

Till he steps out of the house again.

Till she longs for his presence again.

The distance was good. Space was better.

But we need to stay home.

Claustrophobia has set in.

Each passing day is leading to more breathlessness.

Isn’t this what Covid is doing outside?

Taking our breath away?