Warm colors adorned the shabby bedroom through the glass window, marking the onset of sunset. The old man idling away on his unkempt bed, sulked, rubbing his eyes due to the sudden intrusion of light.
The clanking of steel utensils against each other resounded in the kitchen, whereas obnoxious rock music blared from the old music system in the living room, making the house a chaotic mess.
House? Check. A humble apartment? Check. A roof over the head? Check.
Home? Just a group of strangers simply shared a common roof other than their blood and a legal bond of marriage and parenthood. There were no mutual feelings associated, whatsoever. It was just a house, an apartment to be precise, merely constructed of bricks, cement and other basic ingredients of construction that do not make a home.
The slew of whistles from the pressure cooker followed by the concomitant aroma of chicken reminded the old man of the love he shared with his wife even half a decade ago.
Being the habitual slugabed, he had much difficulty getting out of bed. He retrieved a a DVD of his favorite movie and started playing it on the player. While watching the movie, he looked back to the days when he had started his career as a comedian, much against the wishes of his parents. But back then, he knew it was an honorable job, making people laugh while stifling one's own day-to-day misery as well as laughter.
"Hey! That's not how you do comic gestures," he yelled at the TV screen, the remote moving perfectly in sync with his hand gestures.
His wife yelled back from the kitchen, asking him to keep quiet. The old man retreated to the corner of the bed, stifling his feeling of offence.
"These days, comedy has become black comedy. The focus has completely shifted from entertainment to vulgarity. The taste of the young audience has given leeway for such comedy. Disgusting!" he mumbled.
The blaring music in the living room stopped, and he could hear footsteps marching towards his room.
His son entered the room, scrambled through his father's woodpecked cupboard and pulled out the only new shirt he had bought for his old man. As he was about to leave, his father stopped him.
"What are you doing with that shirt?" he asked.
"I thought you wouldn't need it anymore," said the young man, throwing on the shirt nonchalantly.
The old man sighed. His son, no longer considered him worthy of the present, he had bought for him on his birthday. He leaned back against the headboard and reminisced the good old days with his family, when their situation was still tight, but they were happy and cooperative with each other. Now, with his obliteration from the film industry that refused to acknowledge the contribution and talent of its comedians, his worth had fallen in his family exponentially. He had dreamt of his son continuing his legacy of becoming a renowned comedian, but it only widened the rift between him and his son.
The young man bustled out while still closing the last two buttons of his shirt. From the bedroom, he could hear his son holler in the direction of his mother.
"Don't wait up for me. I might be late. I'm going to visit an old friend who is in the hospital."
There was no reply from the other side.
A few minutes had passed into contemplation of the past. The old man called in question, his success as a family man.
Did he ever try to listen to the grievances of his family? Did he really take his wife for granted? Did he really burden her with the onus of marriage and parenthood, stifling her own wishes in the process?
The answer to these barrage of questions would lead to the course of actions he had taken in response to his wife's behavior, five years ago.
The key to his answer could be heard in the next room, not the jingling sound in literal sense, but in the form of a fuzzy, yet melodious feminine voice.
He marched in the direction of the sound. Standing at the door, he saw his wife facing her back towards him, and listening to her own voice on the gramophone, intently.
"Why did you leave singing?" he asked from the doorway.
