Fickle thoughts

Her intuition had once again proved right-but she did not feel proud about the astuteness of her intuition- instead she wished she had been proved wrong-

What she had feared would transpire actually happened- and when the incident unfurled itself, it had a surreal feel to it- like it was not actually happening to her- she was not a part of the happening- like she was just watching it happen to somebody else as a spectator- so much so that she did not know how to react, respond. She remained queerly unmoved- and then she realized that she had to respond in some manner- and not just sit there like she were watching a movie. She had to think of an appropriate answer- hunt for the right words- She answered dispassionately- she calmly continued to pack his lunch for him- handed it over indifferently- told him to forget that he had uttered those words ever and that she had heard them.

After the impulsive outburst, seeing her grave expression perhaps he realized his blunder and began apologizing fervently- he asked for forgiveness- but she could not bring herself to say that she forgave him for his indiscretion. She stubbornly refused to say that she forgave him- She was not angry or even offended but she felt indignant that he had not paused to think about his wife back home or her husband who was his friend.

He got up and left and she closed- nay slammed the door after him… she hoped she would never have to see him again…

She did not want him to feel humiliated but she did want him to realize that he had been thoughtless- inconsiderate- She understood the frailty of human emotions, but how could he act upon his fickle feelings? Why did he have to confess to her about how he felt about her? What had he expected? How did he summon the audacity to utter those words to her? To tell her to the face that he found her “tempting”? Had he hoped for a reciprocal feeling? She shuddered at the thought.

The Invisible Boundaries...

What did she want? What did she expect? He was right when he said that if she expected him to talk and behave in a specific manner, she might as well draw a picture, stick it on the wall and interact with that lifeless picture! He reminded her that he had a mind and heart of his own- that he existed beyond her imaginations and expectations- his thoughts and feelings could not be tethered to her whims.

She realized he was right. But then she could not make herself accept or like certain aspects of his behaviour while she loved particular traits in him- and he seemed so different at different times invoking contradictory responses within her- she was confused-

But him? He had no confusions, no dilemmas. For him things were simple- and uncomplicated- he could not see or understand beyond his feelings- he had no compunctions about rights or wrongs- He did not find it strange that Friendship could overstep its boundaries and stray into the terrirtory of Love. To him it seemed one of the most Natural culmination to their relationship.
He had no limits drawn for himself. He could not bring himself to stop abruptly at the point she dictated. He often wanted to stretch it a bit further-

So then was this relation incomplete? Or was it a farce? She did not know- but she knew that there was definitely some element which refused to stick to boundaries…some aspect which threatened to lurk beneath the surface- a lurking danger waiting to overwhelm her…where the invisible barriers wore thin and she had to be alert, wary, because she had to face herself at the end of the day…

And so they remained tottering on the rickety wall between definitions of relationships…

A Bygone Life???

The strains of the flute permeated the air - the fragrance of sandalwood agarbathis wafted into her nostrils- she closed her eyes- and drifted….

Images of decorated mud homes- cowdung dried courtyards- open wells- colourful cholis and lehengas, hennaed hands, chiming anklets- jingling bangles- Kohl rimmed eyes, long, plaited tresses, mud pots and the mellifluous strains of the flute…

She was churning the curds- her hennaed hands pulling at the twin ropes , the frothy cream swirled in rhythm around the wooden churn paddle, she hummed absent mindedly- her kohl rimmed eyes gazing vacantly into the distance- a half smile lingering on her crimson lips…kanha- kanha- kanha-

And suddenly the strains of the flute reached her ears- she started- her heart skipped a beat- beads of sweat glistened above her lips- she wanted to run – run to the Banks of the Yamuna- where her Kanha would be waiting- but the butter was yet to set- she grew restless- how would she steal past the watchful eyes of her grandmother, and mother? She tugged at the ropes frantically- the frothy cream splattered around her- she looked around- her gaze fell upon a pot filled with water behind the back door- she gingerly tiptoed upto the pot, emptied the water into the basil platform- and slithered back to churning butter. She looked up to see if her grandmother had noticed- no, she was still bent over the hearth…her mother was busy in the backyard- thankfully her brother and father were out grazing the animals-

She resumed churning the curds vigorously and then as soon as the ball of butter set around the churn paddle, she deftly scooped it with her fingers and placed it in the butter pan. She called out to her grandmother:

“Ba, there is no water in the pot- I will have to fetch some water – shall be back soon”

She did not pause to wait for a reply- quickly gathering the folds of her long lehenga, she swung the empty pot onto her slim waist and sprinted off to the river side.

Her grandmother gazed at the disappearing figure of her granddaughter puzzled. She was sure the pot was full a few moments ago- or was she mistaken? Perhaps her daughter- in- law had used it up. She was getting increasingly forgetful of late.

Radha’s feet found wings- her hair flew behind her- her anklets and bangles created a clamour- the strains of the flute was now near…

Radha stopped when she saw the silhouette of her Beloved Kanha leaning against the Kadamba tree. Her bosom heaved partly due to the exertion of running, and partly due to the increasing excitement in her heart…Kanha was still playing the flute as if oblivious of the world around him- but she knew he was waiting- waiting for Her…she kept the pot on the ground soundlessly, tiptoed to his side, carefully trying to not make noise with her mischevious anklets and bangles- Kanha’s eyes were closed- Radha kept gazing at her Lord’s form- and the world came to a standstill!

Suddenly He opened his eyes, looked at her- the beginning of a smile on his lips- Radha’s cheeks burnt, her eyes lowered, her toes traced absently on the mud…

“What are you doing here at this time? Don’t you have chores at home?” He taunted her.
Radha raised her eyes offended, “yes, I do, plenty of chores – I’m going” and she turned to go.

Radha suddenly felt being pulled to him by her waist, he slowly and deliberately tucked the flute into his waistband- then lazily pulled up her chin- Radha melted into his arms, her back and neck arched backwards- her eyes closed and lips parted- the fragrance of sandalwood seeped into her being….

The waters of the Yamuna swirled and churned in gurgling symphony…

The music stopped. She opened her eyes- She was seated in the “Padmasana” posture on the grass mat in the hall of her home- The silence loomed large…a pang rose and died in her heart…

For Sumit and Prachi!

On the Threshold

The strains of the shehnai
are just round the corner...
the chanting of hymns...
the chiming of bells
echoing within and without

The misty fumes of incense and camphor
The fragrance of the mogra and bela blossoms
are already wafting in the air..

The verandas and the courtyards are bustling
Rustle of silks
glimmer of jewels

there is laughter, there are giggles
There is thrill, there is anticipation
and yet there is trepidation too
Hopes and expectations
Doubts and fears...

But there is willingness and readiness
To make the Best
On the threshold of a New Life
To stop being "I"
and begin as "WE"

Wish you both a Long, Happy Married life...