Steaming Mugs and Silent Smiles

 Steaming Mugs and Silent smiles

The first sliver of dawn was always a signal, not for alarm clocks, but for the gentle clinking of cups from the kitchen. Radha, with her practiced ease, would prepare their morning brew, the aroma of ginger and cardamom weaving through their quiet home. By the time she brought the two steaming mugs to the balcony, her husband, Anand, would already be settled in his favorite chair, the newspaper neatly folded beside him.

"Here we go," she'd murmur, handing him his cup, their fingers brushing for a fleeting, familiar moment. He’d offer a soft smile, his eyes still a little heavy with sleep but warm with affection. This was their ritual, perfected over forty years, a quiet symphony of comfort and companionship.

They wouldn't always talk much in those early moments. Sometimes, Anand would hum a forgotten tune, or Radha would watch the sparrows darting between the potted plants. Mostly, they just were. They sat side by side, the warmth of their mugs radiating into their palms, the morning sun painting soft hues across their faces. The steam rising from their tea seemed to carry away the residual worries of the night and usher in the gentle promise of a new day.

It wasn't just about the tea, though the brew was always perfect. It was the shared silence, the unspoken understanding that flowed between them, the comfort of knowing someone was right there, starting the day with you, just as they had countless times before. In that quiet communion, over two simple cups of tea, they found a profound happiness—a daily testament to a love that had simmered and strengthened, much like their morning brew, with each passing year.