A married friend I met recently told me that the most essential thing for a relationship to survive is both folks should have similar hygiene levels. I was unquestionably dingy, whereas you were no less than Monica of F.R.I.E.N.D.S.

Out of the days that were spent fighting with you, there were always some hours of peace, when I was sleeping and you picked scabs on my back, scolding me for not using a loofah, or one where you were looking away from me, and I kneaded your shoulders, counting stress points and hickeys, if any, belonging to the night before. Now that there are no stress points to dislodge and no hickeys to count, I am busy scratching constellations of scabs on my back, in search of a shooting star that I could wish upon for your return. I find many of them, blackheads flitting across my waist that I place on the back of my hand and blow. As I shut my eyes, a smile erupts. Isn't it good that our hygiene levels didn't match? Else I would have no constellations right now. No consolation, either.

- हर्ष स्नेहांशु