Skip to main content

Should she leave him?



She threw her head back in sorrowful reprieve. The silver plaited sari glistened under her heavy drooping eye lashes that were fixated on an oblong shadow cast by the evening sun before her. Ensconced on a wooden chair, she aligned the folds of her deep red colored sari. While she was caught up in the wake of a gentle breeze that slipped a dry flake of dust into her eyes, a pair of golden yellow feet sneaked out from underneath the restrained flutter of her sari. Her long thick eye lashes beat incessantly and tears smudged the rosy cheek. Through the dilating pupils, the iris of her eyes dissolved the surroundings as she shaded her eyes with the back of her feather white palms.

Brushing his hair back and accentuating the furrow in the parted hair, a young lad in blue jeans and honey colored plain t-shirt noticed the silver white anklets that hugged the melancholic pair of sneaky feet and the lass in pain above for whom the feet belonged. In her undulating world, a pair of rugged army boots in turquoise color and tug boat nosed, approached her. The glass table before her propped the heavy army boots trampling on her reflection as the feet paused presently and produced her kerchief with a pair of hands. ‘Thank you…’ she wished to say more, but the wind swept her words away.

He had a broad face and oblong cheek bones, his thick black hair lay sonorously on both sides of the deep burrow that he parted methodically. He sat down on the chair before her; without the wink of an eye, he observed the hair on the back of her neck that she combed upwards into the braid. The lonely round mole on her milky white nape below the right ear mocked him as she flapped the kerchief to get rid of the dust. His initials were written on it.

Meanwhile, the wind picked up speed; it let loose plaits of her hair as she wrestled with the loose end of her sari’s embroidered hem that was stuck up under the leg of table. With one hand she tucked the loose hair around her ear lobes gently circling them up with her thumb and index finger, with another she tugged at the sari. Tears welled in her eyes, and she sobbed disconsolately. Clutching the torn end of the sari, she sank her face into the cusp of her pink flushed palms.

They had a row last night. She received an onsite offer. Should she leave him?

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

White Man's Diary

I have utter contempt for a man who is not passionate about the work he does; I am at loss for words to decipher the enigma of this world and its subtle nuances. Its really intriguing at the same time quite disturbing to know that there are people who consider the world a mundane place. It’s inconceivable to think that people are ingenuously assuming the shred of indifference. Permit me to feel flattered for being bestowed upon me the onus of enlightening the kind of people that were ostracized for centuries by the society of the enlightened, the kind that were never kind to themselves, the kind that wished to liberate themselves from all the desires that besieged them perpetually. History tells us that the people who managed to think beyond the obvious were invariably rewarded for having put up the act of thinking. People who lived on this planet earth 2000 years prior to now, had enough food for thought. An incredible amount of friction existed at every step they took in the evolutio...
1 comment
Read more

Keyboard

In this land of square edges, people wear black square helmets with lines in contrasting colour drawn right at the top. With tapering stiff cloaks fattening at the bottom, we rest on this flat piece of charcoal Black Island. We stand tall, our bodies solid and inflexible, but the knees are lithe and give away. However, we are genetically designed to spring back up, stand tall and take the incessant knocking on our helmeted heads. Our life time varies; we hear news of islands, our contemporaries, wearing out with the frontline soldiers’ knees worn out of perpetual thrashing to their feet only to spring back and be knocked again. With a population of close to a hundred people, our island boasts a frontline soldier squad of 26. This squad is relentlessly battered; under a roar of stuttering knocks on the head, they are the ones who find their knees buckle before the rest of the population’s. More often than not, it is the ones who are guarding the left front, ones with ‘a’, ‘s’, ‘e’, or...
1 comment
Read more

Pressure Cooker

Daubing the top of wicks, one by one, with drops of kerosene, J proceeded to rest her newly bought Hawkins pressure cooker on the stove. “Now, you wait for the whistle” said the wealthy neighbouring lady who assisted J that morning with the cooker. With an assumed indifference, J waited for the whistle to lift its bottom over the lid and dance in merry. The kerosene stove, she was told won’t do justice to the cooker; she needed a proper gas stove with sleek finish and hollowed eyes that spewed blue flames with the turn of a switch. The kerosene stove with its twelve tongues brocaded over the epithelial layer of its throat, strung into a circle, served her family since the time of marriage. Her son squatted beside her, giggled and found it amusing as J rubbed his cheeks with her hands warmed before the many tongued stove. In the forlorn house under the wooden roof that leaked, between the pale brown walls that flaked, over the grey rugged tiles that cracked, mother and son lent their t...
Post a Comment
Read more