Each afternoon he calls at 3, returning home from court,in a tired voice that perks up when she picks up,
she never says hello, picking up she whispers a reassuring "hmmm?" instead,
"hmmm. . " he says in return and fills her in about his day, enquiring about hers,
she's about to say "and . . . " when the line gets disconnected, she smiles absentmindedly and thinks "Taj Man Singh*!"
the phone rings again, she picks up, "Taj Man Singh ! !" he says.
To her, their actions were a symphony, a falling into, an accord - but mostly it was what they spoke-that they spoke . . .half laughed words, unfinished sentences,cozy rhetoric.
In Neruda's words. .
"I do not know any other way of loving but this, in which there is no I or you, so intimate that your hand upon my chest is my hand, so intimate that when I fall asleep your eyes close."
* The Hotel Taj Man Singh In Delhi, which he passes by on his way, where he first dialed her number, where the telephone signal is inevitably lost. . .