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Yellow

In Dehradun afternoon’s slanted light, yellow is a colour that packs a punch. It drapes the narrow parapet wall between buildings like scorched parchment. From her balcony, Urmi Aunty watches a stray cat prowl it—liquid-slow, precise as a tightrope walk in slow motion. No crowd, no cheers. That’s what makes it sacred: pure balance, untouched by eyes.

Inside, the house hums with finished tasks—utensils silent in their racks, floors damp and cooling, air thick with echoes of old talks. Aunty is moored by routine, a renter in her own habits. Woolf dreamed of a room of one’s own, but this one’s overflowing with her. Loneliness? It’s not empty chairs—it’s too much unshared time, golden pressure with no escape.

The cat’s her foil—ego shed for the walk, ignoring the street’s din below. It owns the city’s edges; she feels caged by roles, like de Beauvoir’s sanctuary-turned-prison. Threshold woman: domestic hush meets wild glare.

Balance isn’t stillness, she muses—it’s endless tiny fixes. Cat slips into shadow; yellow clings to her skin like warm ink. She stands silhouetted, as day’s boundaries repeat and dusk creeps up the valley.

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