He was sitting on his beloved wooden rocking chair in the middle of the room with high ceiling and white washed walls. There was the old fan from his youth rotating above his head, slowly like a crank shaft, greyed much like the remaining few hair on the back of his head. The window was open and the light outside was dark, much like the light just after sunset and just before the night.
The television set was switched on, though the only visible elements on it were the microwave background radiations coming from far edges of the universe much like the thoughts in his aged brain. There was a silent warmth in the room. He was wearing a white vest and a trouser below. Beside his chair was a table, with a telephone, a notepad and a few medicines. There was a small bottle of perfume. A drawer under the desk had photo albums, a couple of diaries and a pencil.
He was waiting for her to come and cook some food for dinner. His meals used to be small and well spaced out. He had just had some chips with tea. He had turned on the television to watch the evening news. That and an old transistor radio were perhaps his only source of information of the outside world. Long long ago his eyes were blacker than they were at that moment. And he could read the details of each politician’s characters, and the scores of each cricket match. Now he was limited only to headlines. It had got difficult for him to keep a track of the fast-paced yearly rotation of the person occupying the Prime Minister’s post! Suddenly the door bell rang, and he looked up at the clock on the wall. It was eight, he saw, and got up to open the door.