She notices a couple of greeting cards on top of the cubby shelves and walks over to read them. The first is an anniversary card sent from Nirav’s parents, congratulating them on their first year of marriage. The second is a Raksha Bandan card for Nirav sent from Maya. The rakhi is still taped inside. Kavita’s fingers fumble around her pocket for Sunil’s rakhi, where it is safe, and makes her wince as she touches it. As she places the card back on the shelf, she wonders why Nirav didn’t ask her to tie the bracelet onto his wrist, as he normally would have, then reasons perhaps he didn’t want to upset her. The lack of sympathy cards is puzzling, though. She might not have read them, then again she might have, but either way, reading the cards wasn’t the point, the point was acknowledgment, a small gesture to make a lonely time less lonesome. It is possible that cards have been sent, and Nirav has placed them aside, for the same reason he failed to mention the rakhi. She will ask him about it later.

She is about to turn away when her gaze falls upon a wedding picture. Numbly, she reaches for the frame. The moment captured shows her and Sunil standing side by side, his arm slung comfortably around her shoulder, her painted nails peeking brightly out around his waist. She is dressed in a maroon lengha. Sunil is wearing a black Nehru-collared suit with a waistcoat that matches Kavita’s dress. They are staring into the camera, nascent smiles suspended on their faces, as though they aren’t sure when the photographer is going to take the photo. It is her favourite wedding picture of them because it is candid, imperfect, completely unlike the phony glamour shots in every Indian wedding magazine she has ever seen, which of course, is what makes the portrait perfect in her eyes.

Suddenly she can’t stand to look at the photograph any longer. Its lost beauty burns her eyes as if backlit with fluorescence. She turns away. With blind fingers, she tries to place the frame back in its cubby, then hears it teeter and crash, but doesn’t look at it again, not even to stand it upright, or check the glass for cracks.

Out on the terrace, the rain has stopped, but each gust of wind carries a lash. She feels her body contract as though retreating to warmer inward places. She makes a cave with her shoulders, lights her cigarette, and exhales slowly. The rattle of her nerves loses a bit of its shake as she shifts her gaze down to the street.