They live in an apartment on the seventh floor. The kind where every balcony looks into another, and curtains become a way of recognising neighbours without knowing them.
They have been married for over forty years. Long enough to stop announcing milestones. Long enough to know that New Year’s Eve does not arrive with excitement anymore.
It arrives with a question of what to do – together.
“So,” she says, folding the newspaper she has been reading without much attention, “what are we doing tonight?”
He looks up, not immediately. He knows this question. It appears every year.
“We could go out,” he says, cautiously.
“Where?” she asks, already unconvinced.
He mentions the club nearby, the one that reinvents itself every few years, changing only the food menu but not the music.
She shakes her head. “Too noisy. They’ll have some band playing the same boring songs. You’ll complain later about the selection.”
He doesn’t hate the songs but gets irritated only when the band tries too hard to sound young. She, on the other hand, doesn’t care much for music anymore.
“At least there would be people,” she says. “I could talk.”
He imagines her exchanging updates like who is unwell, who has moved, whose children don’t call often enough. He imagines himself nodding, smiling politely, counting the minutes. The idea fades without needing to be rejected.
“What about going to Patil’s place?” he suggests.
She doesn’t even look up. “His wife will start again. New curtains, new doctor, new diet. Everything is always better in her house.”
He almost smiles. He actually likes Patil’s wife. She talks too much, yes, but she remembers things about him. She asks about his health without pretending. But this is not the evening for counterarguments.
They sit quietly for a while.
“We could go to the farmhouse,” she says suddenly.
The suggestion surprises both. The farmhouse exists mostly as a shared memory—discussed often, visited rarely.
“And who will clean it?” he asks gently. “No one will come on the 31st night. You know that.”
She knows. The farmhouse retreats back into conversation.
She glances at her phone.
“We could call the children on Zoom,” she says, almost dutifully.
He hesitates – not emotionally, but practically. “You’ll have to do it. I never know where to click. Last time I kept talking while I was muted.”
She smiles faintly. She remembers that call. The awkward pauses. The frozen faces. The repeated Can you hear us?
“They’ll be busy anyway,” she says. “It’ll be morning there.”
The phone stays on the table, untouched.
The WhatsApp messages are pouring in.
“Happy New Year, Chief,” says his IIT hostel mate. They had called him that when he was the Hostel Social Secretary.
“May all your dreams come true in 2026!” his former secretary messages, attaching a bouquet of flowers. He retired years ago. The message repeats every year. Even the picture of the bouquet is the same.
Then a longer message arrives, with a sharp ping:
“🎆 Celebrate the New Year at Future Mall with special discounts, events, and surprises waiting for you.”
He frowns. The mall opened recently, just down the road.
“How did they get my number?” he mutters.
“Why are you reading those WhatsApp messages?” she asks. “They’ll all be the same. Just wordplay.”
“Let’s watch a film,” he says.
She considers it, then shakes her head. “You like slow films. I like ones where something actually happens.”
He doesn’t point out that there is no film they both enjoy. They have learned, over the years, not to negotiate taste.
“Besides,” she adds, “we’ll fall asleep halfway.”
From the window, voices float up from the society compound. Someone has started celebrating early.
“There’s something downstairs, I think,” he says. “In the community hall.”
She sighs. “Everyone will ask the same things. Where are your children? When did they last come? Are they coming this year? How is your health?”
He imagines answering politely. She imagines answering honestly. Both feel answering would be exhausting.
“They don’t really want to know,” she says.
“No,” he agrees. “They just want to fill the silence.”
The bell rings.
He opens the door as he always does, since she is in a wheelchair. A Swiggy delivery boy stands there, holding a warm box.
Pepperoni.
He smiles at her, not in surprise, but in recognition. Pleased that after all these years, she still remembers small preferences without needing to say so.
The television has been on all this while, filling the room with smiling anchors and countdown graphics. Promises of hope, energy, fresh beginning; interspersed with brief anguish over our planet that seems to be ageing faster than its inhabitants.
She reaches for the sleeping tablets. Two each. Habit, not dependence.
“Shall we?” she asks.
He nods.
They go to bed before midnight. The year changes on time, without requiring their attention.
The next morning will be the first day of the new year. It will look very much like the last. The kettle will boil. The newspaper will arrive. The body will remind them of its limits. The future will remain politely uncertain.
And yet, they will wake up together. After forty years, it is no longer a celebration. It is just a quiet assurance.
That togetherness matters.
