As I write to you this evening, a cobweb of droplets on the window pane makes my vision a beautiful blur. It is so quiet around here that I can even hear their soft tap on the glass. The wind, in all its vivacity, whistles through my hair, sweeps across my face, and as my eyelids drop in response, it swiftly moves to caress my neck like a young lover, like the first touch of romance.
Yesterday, on a similar evening, I decided to drape that gorgeous yellow sari – the one I had worn on the morning of our wedding – the smell of fresh turmeric still lingering in its delicate folds. Vermillion glowed on the parting of my hair – it being faded ebony black now. A big red circle between my brows glistened with the radiance of the morning sun. I couldn’t help but laugh at the irony of the situation. I wondered – is this what they mean by your fate written in blood? Perhaps.
My eyes, adorned in dark kohl, smudged slightly at the corners, almost rejoiced at a break from mundane chores and harsh realities. I let them revel in that moment of glory that felt so long lost that it was nearly forgotten. I looked at myself in the dust layered mirror, feeling that I was again capable of loving myself. I looked just the way I loved to and exactly how you loved me as I did. Sun had risen after years of grey, I thought.
The wind now rages over the meadow, through the grass and the trees, over the mountains and across the brook – its waters rising in fury, or dancing in glee – I cannot decipher. As a blanket of black density encloses the sun and droplets on the window pane dry up in fright, a steely expanse of magnanimity jails me in a world from which my soul has escaped. Only my being remains.