Ever felt that certain positions of the hands of the clock would leave indelible marks on your psyche, long  after their once-special relevance in your life?

My brother and I used to come back home from school around 2:30 pm. I used to heat up the food and then we both had lunch. Maa, who is a teacher, came home around 3:30 pm. I think she still does! We – at least I did, not sure about my brother – used to look forward to 3:30 pm, waiting for the doorbell to ring or the door to open from the outside. Maa used to open it with her key sometimes, to surprise us I think. So that’s the back story.

This year, starting in November I’ve been taking Fridays off, to burn through my yearly use-it-or-lose-it vacation days. On almost every day that I’ve been home alone (Brinda still goes to daycare as I get caught up on some work and chores), at around the 3:30 pm mark, I have caught myself looking at the clock, kind of wishing, almost half expecting, that my wife walked in with our daughter.

Eerily Pavlovian, isn’t it?

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