It was a perfect Saturday morning. Midwinter, the dewdrops lingered reluctantly on the windowpane, beside which sat Omi, on a cozy chair, by the fireplace, leafing through the crisp pages of her favourite novel. Life couldn’t be better, Omi reflected as she sipped some warm coffee, the vapour from which was still rising. 

Ever since she moved to the humble abode in the outskirts of the Valley some three months ago, she has had nothing to complain. It was quiet, just how she wanted it to be, with no honking cars or screeching people to disturb her musings. Every month she had to pay her rent as per the contract, and that was it, after she steered clear of the landlord—she steered clear of all human contact.  

Only Omi and the landlord lived in the house. The landlord, a gloomy-looking man in his fifties, had a peculiar vibe around him. She had never seen him smile, nor had she ever seen any visitor pay him visits, since she moved there. To her, he seemed like an old, miserable man without any purpose in life. He didn’t live, he merely existed. She knew of him from a neighbour who had revealed to her that his son was in the UK pursuing his graduation, and his daughter was married and lived in her house. There was no information on the man’s wife. He had probably conversed with Omi merely five times in the last three months—until lately. 

A person who usually kept to herself, Omi didn’t care much. Lately though, she had started noticing changes in him. He had started paying attention to his looks. His hair always groomed, he had also begun greeting her warmly when they came across each other. He’d be seen clad in tidy clothing—except for the constant, old black sweater. The sweater seemed to be his favorite, or else he wouldn’t have worn it around, despite the burnt sleeve. 

And this particular day, as Omi sat on her cozy chair, perched by the fireplace, sipping her warm coffee—the landlord came to her. With his cheeks blushed, she could tell, he needed to talk about something very important. He seemed coy. 

 “How do I look?” he asked, taking her by surprise. 

 “Do you think I look good...umm… well-dressed?” he asked. His cheeks got painted in warmer hue of the blush. 

“Oh, you look wonderful—handsome and well-dressed. But that sweater—don’t you want to change it?” she responded honestly. 

 “Thank you, but I can’t take off this sweater. My wife knitted this for me on my 25th birthday. It is very dear to me.” 

He lingered by for a minute before he  stood to leave. 

“Going somewhere, dai?” she asked, not sure whether to call him dai or uncle.

“Yes, somewhere very important indeed. The hands of the clock don’t seem to be moving any slower though,” he chuckled.

“It’s a nice sweater. I’m sure it holds a lot of memories for you,” Omi said. 

“Yes, it does. You see this burnt sleeve, this happened as soon as I wore it the first time,” the landlord’s eyes gleamed. 

 “30 years ago, my beloved gifted me this sweater. This sleeve accidentally caught fire from a candle that was still burning. To me it wasn’t a big deal, but she cried all day, that day. This sweater made her so sad that she knit me a new one too. But I could never love any sweater as much as I love this one. I wouldn’t trade it for the world.” 

The anecdote spoke a lot about his love for his wife and the kind of husband he was. But, it didn’t quite reveal whether she was still in his life. Omi wanted to ask, but didn’t know how to.

 “Aw, I can tell you love your wife so much. Your eyes gleam as you talk of her,” Omi hunted for clues. 

He answered her curiosity with everything she needed to hear: “My wife is coming home today. She was diagnosed with stomach cancer some time ago. It was an early diagnosis and the doctors wouldn’t let me bring her home before her recovery. Cancer has changed her. It had toughened her and I’m not sure if I like it. She is always in pain. It is horrible to see a loved one fight something as lethal as cancer and there is nothing you can do. But the battle seems to be over now. She has been discharged” 

The tears spoke a lot about his love, about his fear, and about his own separate battle. 

“So you like Murakami? I have read a couple of his books,” the landlord tried to change the topic.  

“Do you read a lot of books too?” She inquired. 

“Mahima reads a lot, I, not so much. On a day like this, she wouldn’t have moved from the couch for a whole day. Even while she was hospitalized, she wouldn’t settle until I read to her. She said books were better than painkillers.” He added, “Few more hours and you’ll meet your landlady. I can tell she’ll be fond of you,” he said as he reached for the door. 

As he exited, she called out to him, “Dai, one of these days, I’ll read my favourite book to her.”

He didn’t say anything, just smiled and left.

She couldn’t concentrate, and she didn’t even try to. She let her train of thoughts go back and forth between past and future. She went back to the time, when she thought how unlucky his wife must have been, to spend her whole life with a miser. How many times had she wondered how his life must have been like, and why he never smiled? This person, Omi thought now, who looked reclusive, unfathomable, cold even, from outside, carried so much love within. 

The sweater was much more than just a tool to prevent cold. It represented some beautiful memories and a prominent person in his life. 

By the time Omi got out of her train of thoughts, it was already 10. She put the fire off and decided to put off the reading to make some noodles for herself and perhaps her landlady too, all the while imagining how they could talk about books and exchange their favourite novels.