Tara looked out of the window. Her fingers wandered aimlessly through the long, listless strands of her hair, that caressed her hips. The husband had set sail for new profitable shores. She would not set sight on him for the next six weeks. The hollow hunger was already on its way up in her belly.
Surya thought he saw the curtain flip and a shadow dissolve behind the darkness. It was probable it was she. The merchant had left at the crack of dawn. He had paid Surya's step father a hefty fees to take one of his giant boats and ten of his best sailors. It could only be termed a divine intervention that the wound on his back disqualified him from joining the group.
The brass door knob felt ominous. Tara halted for a moment. Another step and she would smell the freshly cut grass, the air and soil. "No this is far too dangerous." She looked away from her moment of emancipation and curled down near the door. She has forgotten how it felt to step out. She just lay there, feeling the rude intrusion of cold marble on her face. The woman within her had died several deaths each time the trader husband chose to look the other way, copulated with her sans passion; bought her sarees and bangles but never cared to touch the drops of water on her shoulder remnant from her baths. Now she was accustomed to crispy crackle of currency notes taking over the melody of her languishing heart.
"Biwi Ji, I got you a water lily." Jolted from her reverie, Tara sprung to her feet. She had heard this voice before. She recognized the shudder it sent through her body and into her soul. This was him. What was he doing at her door step at such an hour? Did he not sail with the rest of them? Did it allow her to be anxious?
Surya was there waiting for the door to open and those tiny feet to appear. And soon enough they did. He could not look at the face, the dainty little pink feet preoccupied his gaze. He was besotted since he first saw them walk up the cobbled steps of the bathing ghat one morning. Now it was a daily ritual.He would be there humming some meaningless song, cleaning his boat each morning, waiting for the duo to appear and disappear slowly in the water. That was his opium, he survived each day and skipped through his dreams each night to be there at the ghat as the Sun nodded to the million salutation.
The silver bells looked bigger today. Yes their music was familiar, yet hesitant. How he craved for a touch of those feet, that he he knew would destroy the last thread of salvation. He wanted to reach out and lay his hands on the alabaster like creation. But the awareness of another's sight stinging him was too strong too ignore. His heels dug further into the soil.
"What is your name?" Tara quietly asked. "Surya". The young man continued to look towards the earth. Her eyes panned the broad expanses of his shoulders. She knew where she had heard his voice. It was at the ghat each morning in the rendition of lonesome sailor songs. There he was, eyes shy, sun beaten skin. The ebony chest lay bare like an empty sheet to be a witness of a tale of the unknown. The legs that revealed themselves from underneath the crumpled dhoti had witnessed many a severe storm, frantic sprint through the dusty lanes, submerged secrets of the river that flowed out of their village. He was blocking her sight and his shadow engulfed her. The eyelashes were like palm leaves. They fell like a cover over the promises his eyes held. The jaw was taut and almost perfect, save the dip in his chin. Why did she want to run her finger across the jawline, circle the dimple and move all the way up? Dark and quiet, he loomed large like a sculptor's rustic creation. Rough around the edges, smooth like slate all the way, she saw the muscles of his torso clench under her shameless gaze.
He lay the flower on the red verandah. Her feet were brushing against one another. He let out a sigh. The warm breath bathed her feet in sensations she had tucked away in the crevices of her broken memory. The lehenga revealed nothing beyond her ankles. The mirrors on the skirt could not distract him from following the length of her legs. "She has a tiny clinched waist," he marveled as his eyes lingered on the gold chain that spun lazily around her. The hands that rowed the boat and set the tattered sail each day, agonized at the thought of tip-toeing through the doll like figurine that stood there twisting an unknown desire inside him. Only if she could be reached out to.
Tara noticed the jagged an bruised hands. The palms were like a map of the journeys he had made and the mementos the wind and water gave back. She ached to be under their touch, to be imprinted by the roughness of them. What patterns would they draw on her back? Would they release her hair from the usual braid? Could they cover the contour of her heart shaped face and resuscitate the forgotten couplets? She wanted to know, she wanted to hold, she wanted to proffer. He had washed up at her shore. She wanted to celebrate in gay abandon. "It would be short lived, but this shall last me a lifetime." Tara knew it was the end.
He retraced his steps on the red soil. He knew the flower now lay in her hand. He need not look back for a promise. There were none. The eyes followed him as far as they could see. She knew the doors would soon shield him from her, once again.
A distant melody breezed in on that autumn afternoon. Tara knew Surya's song, she did not read his eyes.
The lotus feet reappeared from beneath the water. They slipped past him yet again. Surya did not see the river mirror Tara's face.
They did not need to know. They were aware.
"A dream has power to poison sleep." - P.B Shelley
Surya thought he saw the curtain flip and a shadow dissolve behind the darkness. It was probable it was she. The merchant had left at the crack of dawn. He had paid Surya's step father a hefty fees to take one of his giant boats and ten of his best sailors. It could only be termed a divine intervention that the wound on his back disqualified him from joining the group.
The brass door knob felt ominous. Tara halted for a moment. Another step and she would smell the freshly cut grass, the air and soil. "No this is far too dangerous." She looked away from her moment of emancipation and curled down near the door. She has forgotten how it felt to step out. She just lay there, feeling the rude intrusion of cold marble on her face. The woman within her had died several deaths each time the trader husband chose to look the other way, copulated with her sans passion; bought her sarees and bangles but never cared to touch the drops of water on her shoulder remnant from her baths. Now she was accustomed to crispy crackle of currency notes taking over the melody of her languishing heart.
"Biwi Ji, I got you a water lily." Jolted from her reverie, Tara sprung to her feet. She had heard this voice before. She recognized the shudder it sent through her body and into her soul. This was him. What was he doing at her door step at such an hour? Did he not sail with the rest of them? Did it allow her to be anxious?
Surya was there waiting for the door to open and those tiny feet to appear. And soon enough they did. He could not look at the face, the dainty little pink feet preoccupied his gaze. He was besotted since he first saw them walk up the cobbled steps of the bathing ghat one morning. Now it was a daily ritual.He would be there humming some meaningless song, cleaning his boat each morning, waiting for the duo to appear and disappear slowly in the water. That was his opium, he survived each day and skipped through his dreams each night to be there at the ghat as the Sun nodded to the million salutation.
"What is your name?" Tara quietly asked. "Surya". The young man continued to look towards the earth. Her eyes panned the broad expanses of his shoulders. She knew where she had heard his voice. It was at the ghat each morning in the rendition of lonesome sailor songs. There he was, eyes shy, sun beaten skin. The ebony chest lay bare like an empty sheet to be a witness of a tale of the unknown. The legs that revealed themselves from underneath the crumpled dhoti had witnessed many a severe storm, frantic sprint through the dusty lanes, submerged secrets of the river that flowed out of their village. He was blocking her sight and his shadow engulfed her. The eyelashes were like palm leaves. They fell like a cover over the promises his eyes held. The jaw was taut and almost perfect, save the dip in his chin. Why did she want to run her finger across the jawline, circle the dimple and move all the way up? Dark and quiet, he loomed large like a sculptor's rustic creation. Rough around the edges, smooth like slate all the way, she saw the muscles of his torso clench under her shameless gaze.
He lay the flower on the red verandah. Her feet were brushing against one another. He let out a sigh. The warm breath bathed her feet in sensations she had tucked away in the crevices of her broken memory. The lehenga revealed nothing beyond her ankles. The mirrors on the skirt could not distract him from following the length of her legs. "She has a tiny clinched waist," he marveled as his eyes lingered on the gold chain that spun lazily around her. The hands that rowed the boat and set the tattered sail each day, agonized at the thought of tip-toeing through the doll like figurine that stood there twisting an unknown desire inside him. Only if she could be reached out to.
Tara noticed the jagged an bruised hands. The palms were like a map of the journeys he had made and the mementos the wind and water gave back. She ached to be under their touch, to be imprinted by the roughness of them. What patterns would they draw on her back? Would they release her hair from the usual braid? Could they cover the contour of her heart shaped face and resuscitate the forgotten couplets? She wanted to know, she wanted to hold, she wanted to proffer. He had washed up at her shore. She wanted to celebrate in gay abandon. "It would be short lived, but this shall last me a lifetime." Tara knew it was the end.
He retraced his steps on the red soil. He knew the flower now lay in her hand. He need not look back for a promise. There were none. The eyes followed him as far as they could see. She knew the doors would soon shield him from her, once again.
A distant melody breezed in on that autumn afternoon. Tara knew Surya's song, she did not read his eyes.
The lotus feet reappeared from beneath the water. They slipped past him yet again. Surya did not see the river mirror Tara's face.
They did not need to know. They were aware.
"A dream has power to poison sleep." - P.B Shelley
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