The grocery list was always written in his handwriting.
Even when she was the one going to the shop.
Rice.
Curd.
Coriander.
Soap.
Bananas.
Sometimes, at the bottom, he wrote something that wasn’t needed.
“Biscuits.”
She always knew that meant he wanted biscuits.
He could have said it.
He never did.
For twenty-three years, the list moved around the house.
On the fridge.
Under the newspaper.
Beside the keys.
Once, stuck to the front door with a magnet shaped like a mango.
They argued about the list too.
“Why do you write coriander when we still have some?”
“Because we need it.”
“We don’t.”
“Fine.”
She bought it anyway.
One Saturday, she found an old list inside a cookbook.
The date was twelve years earlier.
Rice.
Curd.
Coriander.
Soap.
Bananas.
Biscuits.
She laughed.
“You haven’t changed at all.”
He looked over his glasses.
“Why would I?”
She folded the paper and put it back.
That evening, he asked if they had biscuits.
She opened the cupboard.
“No.”
“Put it on the list.”
She picked up a pen.
He watched her write.
“You missed coriander.”
She added it.
Then, underneath everything else, she wrote one more word.
“Biscuits.”
He smiled.
“Good.”
If this story stayed with you…
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