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

Where British Steel met the Nubile Cultural Beauty.

Noughties have been a delight. My life began; I might be tempted to say-just as any other city’s did. But the fact is that my life began when angry gentlemen threw spades at each other. In sixteenth century, my rulers at Golconda founded me. Musi, my artery ran through me fresh and clear embellishing me for years. When plague besieged me portentously, my rulers wove one of the most beautiful monuments in India-Charminar, adorned me with the crown. But before the incumbent rulers at Golconda could flourish in the shadows of the great crown and meadows of the fecund land, Nizams defeated them in a battle. What was to come next, I would not have contemplated at that time, but looking back, I realise that the Nizams watered those shrubs of culture that sporadically rose in the rule of my previous rulers. What was to be quoted by Dr. Ambedkar after my inclusion in the united India - as home to all the riches and culture, so good to take upon the capital city status for a united India - grew...
2 comments
Read more

Chowmahalla Palace

It was the morning after my wedding. The dark peachy coloured blinds on my windows were still drawn; the maid with pigtails had retreated after laying down the morning’s breakfast on the thickly lacquered table. Stepping down from the cot, silk thread from my morning dishabille was stuck in the headrest’s broad eagle wings; it threatened to steal away my modesty. Gathering the folds around my knees, I restored propriety before slipping my feet into the glint slippers. The flower vase in the patio shone its tinselled mouthful of white roses that caught sun voluminously. In the garden that night, sitting alone, with the full moon perched in the pool water before me, I recalled the incident and the man who had turned me into a woman. The day before my wedding, a painter had been called. I met him in the courtyard; he was seated on a backless piano chair. Neatly perched on the easel was the drawing board, and from behind it, with tapered quills, greeted a man with sagebrush moustache. Th...
1 comment
Read more

Doused with life

Kiran was only eight years old when the incident occurred. He was walking home tired and hungry, sweeping the tar road with his eighty rupees worth new shoes as he walked on completely exhausted. His school bag, he hung it up his head and lunch box was suspended to his right shoulder. The year was 1984; India had just won the world cup. Kids were playing cricket in every street and by lane of the city. The cycle repair man was pulling the air filled tube through a bucket of water to check for the air leaks, the tall man Kiran’s neighbour stood by the repair man’s side counting the leaks himself, lest he be cheated. ‘If I can reach the end of the incline before the limping man nearing it from the other side of the road, I will get first rank in class this summer’ Kiran challenged himself. He reached the incline that would ease his harrowing walk from the school to home; he descended down the incline with measured relief and took a left turn at the end of it. He left the limping man behi...
Post a Comment
Read more