He was the one destined to love her and cherish her and make her feel proud of being a woman. The saat pheras were so magical. He had promised to fulfil her life, reach it to its ultimate destiny – a life well lived and loved. It felt like yesterday when she and her school buddy Anjali were whispering and giggling before her wedding night. She had told Anju she would have borne his baby anyway – marriage or no marriage. ‘What does it feel like to bear the child of the man you love so much,’ she had wondered aloud, ‘do men ever understand that?’ Are they capable of understanding that? Why don’t women ever say it? Of course, in what words.
But what was he saying – she couldn’t hear anything. What did he have in his hands? This was all wrong. His eyes looked so different. That liquid kept sloshing down her ears for so long – a minute stretched to eternity. A familiar smell, was it? Everything was in slow motion. It happens when you’re in love or, sometimes, when you’re in shock.
She had dreamt of a life of roses, soft whispers, surprises that would sweep her off her feet – Anju had all that – loving glances across crowded rooms, long drives in their new car. That smell is petrol. But she never kept any petrol in the kitchen. She didn’t need petrol – not in the kitchen.
What was he doing? And what was that something burning? She could smell something but couldn’t figure out what. Everything was dulled and hazy. She couldn’t feel a thing. She was floating in a vacuum. There were bright shades of yellow. Beautiful shades she had never seen before. She kept floating, passing through her dreams. Everything was black and white except for those beautiful yellows, glowing and shimmering through her.
She could see a little from the eyes that she thought were swollen. Actually they were charred, with lumps and loose flesh hanging from the lids. One of her eyes had dim vision.
He was on the phone now, sitting on one of their exquisite mahogany dining table chairs. He looked so good, his jaw line profiled in the dark by the yellows that were shining through her. He was whispering into the phone. His voice sounded as if it came from a far, far away place. He didn’t even look once – just kept down the phone and started throwing about things. In a few moments, her beautiful house looked battered and broken. But he had a calm look on his face. So everything must be alright. It must be.
Then he went to the door and that woman came in. Who was she? Never had seen her, had she? Too many questions were swimming in that vacuum.
He was breaking all the vows for another woman but shock has a wonderful quality – it numbs you. There was absolute silence and then there was nothing, just like in the beginning.
© Copyright, Richa Singh, 2002
But what was he saying – she couldn’t hear anything. What did he have in his hands? This was all wrong. His eyes looked so different. That liquid kept sloshing down her ears for so long – a minute stretched to eternity. A familiar smell, was it? Everything was in slow motion. It happens when you’re in love or, sometimes, when you’re in shock.
She had dreamt of a life of roses, soft whispers, surprises that would sweep her off her feet – Anju had all that – loving glances across crowded rooms, long drives in their new car. That smell is petrol. But she never kept any petrol in the kitchen. She didn’t need petrol – not in the kitchen.
What was he doing? And what was that something burning? She could smell something but couldn’t figure out what. Everything was dulled and hazy. She couldn’t feel a thing. She was floating in a vacuum. There were bright shades of yellow. Beautiful shades she had never seen before. She kept floating, passing through her dreams. Everything was black and white except for those beautiful yellows, glowing and shimmering through her.
She could see a little from the eyes that she thought were swollen. Actually they were charred, with lumps and loose flesh hanging from the lids. One of her eyes had dim vision.
He was on the phone now, sitting on one of their exquisite mahogany dining table chairs. He looked so good, his jaw line profiled in the dark by the yellows that were shining through her. He was whispering into the phone. His voice sounded as if it came from a far, far away place. He didn’t even look once – just kept down the phone and started throwing about things. In a few moments, her beautiful house looked battered and broken. But he had a calm look on his face. So everything must be alright. It must be.
Then he went to the door and that woman came in. Who was she? Never had seen her, had she? Too many questions were swimming in that vacuum.
He was breaking all the vows for another woman but shock has a wonderful quality – it numbs you. There was absolute silence and then there was nothing, just like in the beginning.
© Copyright, Richa Singh, 2002
This was my first attempt at writing short stories. The story dates back to May 11 2002 but the experience that crystallized into this story dates back to 1993. The context of the real story was very different from the one here – it was a dowry burns case. I go numb everytime I recall standing by the hospital bed of a 40% burns victim, with her ma-in-law reclining on an adjacent couch. I can never forget the girl – she was exceptionally beautiful (not saying this because she was burnt…she actually was beautiful by traditional Indian standards of beauty) and I can never forget the plump ma-in-law with thick kohl eyes and straight, sharp lips. The hospital staff told us her hubby never came to see her.
