Mr Kurup rotated the tap handle to stop the stream of water and he looked at the mirror one last time for the day. He wasn’t exactly satisfied with the ageing man he saw in the mirror and wondered how his wife did it, smiled like she always used to, always so bright and beautiful.
Mr Kurup wiped his hand dry and headed for his study room, on the way he glanced at his wife watching a movie. They had seen it several times together, and the charm of some movies refused to fade. A minute or two passed while Mr Kurup stood with nostalgia and then he continued his journey.
Mr Kurup sat on his study table, turned on the reading lamp and from the third drawer of the table took out a diary, hardbound by a cover of wine-red colour.
Mr Kurup wasn’t a regular diary writer; it was just for the occasional days when he felt he wanted to write a thought or two in his words. It was essentially an attempt to give some form of satisfaction to his inner writer, something he wished to have become but rather chose a path with assured decent income, nothing bad about that choice, but a bit sad when one read his writings.
Yes, the diaries weren’t private and Mr Kurup always knew someone would surely read them hence he made that effort to make his writings more readable. What he had not expected was how many would actually read them, because his wife would show the writings to everyone like it was some form of great treasure of the household.
The obvious suggestion of ‘you should get it published’ and the question of ‘why haven’t you published something yet’ kept on coming and over the time the answer changed form, from being in words to the silence accompanied by a smile. Their only son would sometimes joke of earning a lot of money by publishing the writings when Mr Kurup would be too old to say ‘no’.
Mr Kurup just enjoyed his time writing and it made him sufficiently happy and on top of that his wife was the only reader he cared about and seeing her happy somehow made it worth all the effort.
Written by Anuran Chatterji
Early Morning Memories 
2 responses to “Words of Contentment”
I could relate so much with the story. As usual very well written.
Though I do not write a diary but do transform my thoughts into poems or rather ‘rhyming lines’. And have had similar requests from loved ones to get some chosen few printed. But as Mr Kurup, I too am happy to share it with my loved ones. I usually tell them that I mostly write for my self. It’s like स्वान्तः सुखाय |
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What a tender and beautifully layered vignette! 🌟
You’ve captured Mr. Kurup’s quiet world with such grace — the gentle melancholy of aging, the soft glow of shared memories, and the understated joy of a private passion. The details — the wine-red diary, the glance at his wife absorbed in a familiar film, the playful teasing from their son — give the piece a warmth that lingers long after reading.
I love how his writing isn’t about recognition or grand ambition, but about connection: to himself, to his memories, and most of all, to the woman who treasures his words. This story feels like a calm evening breeze, carrying affection, nostalgia, and an invitation to honor the small, sustaining pleasures of life.
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