Sarci-Sense: From Swoon Phase to Moon-phase — The Great Indian Marital Timing

It started with thrice a day.

Like the time-tested trio in the Hindu calendar — Kuligai, Yamagandam, and Rahu Kalam. One of them auspicious, the others technically avoidable. But in the early days of marriage, all three slots were joyfully explored. Morning, evening, sometimes even post-lunch—why not? The energies were youthful, the knees co-operated, and no one ever said “I’m too tired” unless it was a post-performance brag.

Back then, every room in the house had a certain memory. Including the kitchen. Including the utility area. Including that one time on the washing machine, which now only spins clothes and mild regret.

But over time, as with all things divine and domestic, equilibrium arrived. That you are not in control.

The grand triad reduced to a single, reverent daily ritual—just Kuligai. After all, it’s the only truly auspicious window in the day. One mustn’t disrespect time.

The day jobs had picked up steam by then. One of them had just become VP of something; the other was managing both a boss and a baby. Deadlines began arriving faster than date nights. Intimacy had to politely wait in the wings while Excel sheets and salary slips hogged the stage.

“Tonight, Kuligai, okay?”

He’d whisper like a planning minister in Parliament.

She’d reply, “Depends. My neck is slightly off-centre. Feels like a rotating fan on low mode.”

“Done,” he’d nod solemnly. “We shall proceed in anti-clockwise direction.”

Travel became a new kind of third wheel.

“Are you in Mumbai or Singapore next week?”

“Tuesday Mumbai, Wednesday Delhi, Thursday your dreams.”

“Oh lovely. Shall I pencil in Kuligai for Sunday night?”

If the jet lag spares me, yes.”

Soon after, Kuligai became a once-a-week affair—like the Saturday fasting ritual. A day marked in the mind, sometimes on the phone calendar.

“Are you free this Friday?” he’d ask, casually.

“I need to check if I’ve applied oil to my hair,” she’d respond, equally casually.

“Oh, that again,” he’d sigh.

“It’s not just oil. It’s sesame oil. Very slippery logistics.”

They both knew it wasn’t just about the hair.

And then came the children phase in full form.

From diapers to tuition classes, from Lego injuries to late-night fevers, the energy that once fuelled sparks now went into finding lost socks and hiding chocolate from the kids.

“Is it okay if we move Kuligai to next week?” he’d ask.

“I just survived PTA and math homework. Unless you want me to recite fractions during…”

“Noted,” he’d say, removing the rose petals from the bed before the child spotted them.

Life kept evolving. His waistline began to resemble his old office printer—square, dependable, and slightly noisy. She bought a heating pad and used it more than her face cream. Yet, once in a while, there would be a moonlit spark. Quite literally.

Enter the Pournima–Amavasya phase.

Twice a month. Celestial, predictable, mystical. If planets could align, so could they. Provided the children were out, the back wasn’t acting up, and no cricket match was scheduled.

“Tonight’s Amavasya,” he declared one evening with the drama of a man who’d just discovered a buried treasure.

“Are you feeling spiritual or frisky?” she asked.

“Bit of both,” he said, already doing gentle lunges to warm up.

“I’ve made kheer,” she whispered. “Let’s see how the night flows.”

But even moon cycles have their limits. From two nights a month, it shrank to one. Either Pournima or Amavasya—depending on whose knee was less noisy and whether the neighbours had visitors.

The years brought another guest to the household—elder care. Ageing parents moved in or needed constant checking in. Someone always had a blood test in the morning or a specialist appointment to coordinate. Romance quietly stood aside, holding the reports and wondering how long the queue at the lab would be.

“Tonight might be Kuligai,” he’d whisper hopefully.

“Appa has an ECG tomorrow,” she’d sigh.

“Say no more,” he’d nod, already adjusting his pillow to 30 degrees.

And somewhere between cholesterol tests and family WhatsApp groups came the phase of… them. The two of them. Ageing.

Not dramatically, not suddenly. But gradually. The mirror grew more honest. The bones more vocal. The clothes slightly tighter in suspicious places.

“Did you just sigh while bending down?”

“No, that was a groan of triumph,” he claimed.

“Also, your ‘abs challenge’ is one day of stretching followed by three days of Iodex,” she pointed out.

He’d bought a treadmill. She’d started yoga. He stopped using sugar in his tea, and she took her calcium tablets with a grimace. They both agreed that 10:30 PM was now “late.”

But—and this is important—there was something tender and golden about this phase. They didn’t chase the thrill anymore. They enjoyed the quiet thrill of warmth, of familiar fingers brushing past, of unspoken affection. He still reached for her feet under the blanket. She still wore that perfume he liked, once in a while. They laughed at their shared forgetfulness and reminded each other where the comb was kept.

They hadn’t stopped. They had simply… slowed. Elegantly.

And then came the empty nest chapter.

The house went quiet. The children had flown—college, jobs, weddings, cities with better coffee and worse traffic. The fridge stayed full for longer. The towels stayed dry. The phone didn’t ring as often, and when it did, it was mostly for electricity bills.

And slowly, between crossword puzzles and Sunday bhajans, between streaming web series with subtitles and forgetting what they were watching halfway through—the two of them found each other again.

One night, he turned to her, reading beside him in bed.

“You know, we don’t have to wait for Pournima anymore.”

She looked up, smiled. “I know. We don’t have to wait for anything anymore.”

No more whispers. No more calendars. No more background noise. Just two people, familiar and new all over again, discovering that love in your 50s can be quietly electric. That laughter shared over tea can sometimes feel more intimate than a kiss in the rain. That a hand reaching across the bedsheet with nothing to prove and nowhere to be, can be the most romantic gesture of all.

And when the light switches off, and the fan creaks above, and the night tucks them in—sometimes, not always—one of them will softly say:

“I think today is Kuligai.”

And the other will reply:

“No Yamagandam in sight.”

And just like that, the house isn’t quiet anymore.

Click to read other stories from the Sarci-Sense series