We separated for two years. It was my decision and I was sure about it. I moved into a small flat in Andheri and learned to cook for one person. I thought I was fine. Then one evening I made too much dal out of habit, and I sat there looking at the second plate. I called him and said, I made too much. There was a long silence. He said, I am coming. That was all. We have been back together for three years now. We are slower with each other, more careful. I do not think love always means you never leave. Sometimes it means you came back and he opened the door.

Nobody in my family said I love you. My father showed it by checking the tyre pressure on my mother's scooter every Sunday for thirty years. I did not understand it until I got married. My wife told me I never say the words. So I started doing what my father did. I check her phone charger before she leaves, I keep her side of the fridge stocked with the curd she likes, I wait at the gate when she is late. Last month she said, you know you do this every day. I said, do what. She said, say it. I think I finally learned the language.

My husband passed away four years ago. I was sixty-one. I thought my love story was over and I said so to my daughter. Last year a neighbour started bringing me the newspaper every morning, just leaving it at the door. After a month I opened the door and asked him in for tea. He is sixty-eight, a retired teacher, and he does not like sugar. We are not getting married. We have not told anyone the right word for it. But he fixed my gate, I taught him to make dal, and on Sundays we both sit and complain about the crossword. At this age, that is a love story too.