Tucked away at the edge of a quiet village stood a small clay house, shaded by old neem and mango trees. It wasn’t grand, but it was home—a home that echoed with years of laughter, shared meals, and the kind of love that deepens with silence more than with words.
Behind the house stretched a clear pond, its surface mirroring the soft blue sky. On this warm afternoon, after a simple home-cooked lunch, the couple sat side by side under the open sky. He, with his fishing rod steady in hand, eyes on the bobber. She, sitting close, her hands busy cleaning fresh green vegetables in a basket.
White ducks waddled nearby, occasionally dipping their beaks into the water or rustling their wings in the sun. The breeze carried the earthy scent of clay and water, blending with the faint aroma of coriander and mustard oil from their lunch.
“I think this time you might catch a bigger one,” she said, without looking up, a gentle smile on her face.
He chuckled, not taking his eyes off the pond. “And what if I don’t?”
“Then we still have lentils and rice,” she replied, teasingly. “But the fish would make the evening more exciting.”
They both laughed quietly, the kind of laughter that comes from years of shared memories. There was no rush here—no pressure to prove or perform. Just presence. Just peace.
She rinsed the spinach leaves, letting droplets fall back into the steel bowl with a rhythm that matched the ripples in the water. He glanced at her—noticing the silver strands in her hair, the same hands that had once rocked their children to sleep, now preparing dinner like always, calm and steady.
“You remember our first day here?” he asked.
She nodded. “You brought me here as a surprise. I cried. I thought I wouldn’t adjust to the quiet.”
“And now?”
“Now, I can’t imagine noise,” she said softly, meeting his eyes.
A duck quacked as if agreeing, and they both smiled again.
The sun began to dip lower, casting golden reflections on the water. It didn’t matter whether they caught a fish or not. What mattered was this—this moment, this rhythm of life they had chosen together. Simple. Whole. Real.
As she stood to take the vegetables inside, he gently caught her hand. “Wait—look at the light on the water,” he said.
She turned, and they watched together—just a minute more—before life carried them forward again, toward dinner, dusk, and the comfort of their clay house by the pond.
*© ChoitalykRuman (2025)/UmmeyMiah
All rights reserved. Unauthorized use or duplication of this content without permission is prohibited.*
Do not copy without proper credit
#ChoitalykRuman #ummeymiah
Leave a Reply