Butterfly and the Orchid farm

The tarmac is spotted with the traffic control people and airplanes from all over the place. All of it, all the people involved, makes this a perfectly functional unit. Watching all of it from behind a glass screen, she slowly flicks some of her hair that ventured too close to her eyes. Her tresses were just washed, and smelled of something sweet and nutty.
The long nails painted maroon gently flicked the stray strands behind her ear. The smell from the freshly painted henna lingered at her nose for a few moments before the tinkling of two dozen red and cream bangles she had on, distracted her senses.
She looked over her shoulder, past the guy in the mauve coloured shirt who had been working on his laptop ever since she came. She could tell from the corner of her eye that he even grimaced at whatever was going on in the screen from time to time.
No sign of him.
A middle aged man walks in, and checks her out sitting cross legged, in blue jeans that had faded from too many washes. That and a little white shirt, teamed with Sindoor and all those bangles. What a pretty sight.
She looked up an again, at an empty door way and picked up her juice bottle that she bought at the grocery store just before getting there. She shook it a little, since the bottle always says shake well before use, and also to estimate how much of it was left. Her fingers felt the circumference of the cap a couple of times, while she tried to decide if she should drink some. Fluids are good for you. But the thought of the door painted with the sign of a girl helped her take a decision against it.
The waiting area was fairly full now. A lot of people had walked in, some with looks on their faces that gave away a long day at work. The seat next to her was unoccupied, except for her handbag.
The guy in the mauve shirt was frowning again at his laptop and there was another man sitting close to her, discussing something in an alien tongue.
She put the palms of her hand together and looked at the intricately painted design on them. The henna had turned a deep brown, black almost. That is a good sign before a wedding, they say. She had on a kind that was a rage- called Zardosi. It was intricate and delicate silver work along with the other pattern. It added that certain touch. Like wearing a business suit over spaghetti trimmed with lace. The pattern in itself had so many things going on, almost as if each little portion of the palms of her hand had a story to tell.
Like the swan under the thumb.
The women who came to do the henna were beautiful in their own way- secretive, giggling among themselves in a tongue that she didn’t understand, and nice milk and cream complexion. They smelled of something she couldn’t put her finger on, and kept receiving text messages that made them flush just the teeniest bit.
She was jerked out of her train of thought when he sat next to her. He was in a light blue shirt and flashed her a smile that was unnerving because of how openly it said so many things. The way his dimple slowly and suddenly formed on his cheek delighted her in many ways.
He puts his hand over her chair, she leans back just a little and his fingers were around her shoulder.
Comfort at a little corner of the world.

The Bangle Shop

Origin. The point of intersection of coordinate axes. The point at which something comes into existence. The point on the graph from which all other points seem to move on, move away. The point where you diverged, from me.

Bangle store in the Old City. The sheer variety and sizes on display are stunning. He has something for every hand size- from black ones for a new born to the bright hues of a sacred red, the wedding collection.

Come here
Give me your hands
Let me hold them

Then you have the choice to make. From plastic, metal and glass. Colourful plastic ones that endure anything from playing in sand to rough weather of any kind, to teething trouble.

Let me hold them
And paint them
With colours

But the ones that occupy most of the store are the ones made of glass. Plain glass, glass with golden work on it, glass with other glassy colour, glass and shimmer. Whoever says iridescent glee can’t be bought for a price?

Turquoise, orange
Brown and pink
And shades
And glitter
And happiness

The old man behind the counter takes a look at you- and simply reaches out for your hand. Squeezes your wrist and determines what size can be woven around them. And then there is the clink of bangles, of him mixing two kinds together so that the end result, your hands, look prettier than ever.

Be here
Mine
Till I paint
For you

Strings together he does. The colours- Fuchsia and another transparent kind with glitter. Proud of the smile on his young lady-customer’s face, he reaches out yet again. To hold your gingerly hands. To slip on hues of beautiful bangles, into slender wrists that beg to mesmerise.
He turns them over, and looks. The slashes on the wrist. And the stitches that now hold them together.
Decorate wounds he does. Oh so well.
Just like the woman who surrenders her hands. Beauty, surely, is for all to see.

And then
You get to choose.
To walk away
Or walk away.

Beloved

It is a dance
Of Silver anklets
And dainty feet
Of fresh puddles
And splashes
In rain water

The feet dance
The skirt raises and falls
The ankles
Slim and muddy
In rain water

Hands move
To music unheard
Just as the waist
Held tight
In a beloveds arms
In rain water

Celebrate life
Let smiles galore
Let tinted lenses
Of happiness swell
Like your lip-colour
In rain water

Let the tears
Run down your face
One with the patterns
Of the one above
Like Kohl smeared eyes
In rain water.

Summer songs of vicissitude

Sepia envelopes
Fingers laced
Promises made
Of an eternity
Together

Waves crash
Like clouds
Above
Nimble emotions
Run awry
Like tears
Down a cheek
Like raindrops
And thunder

Games of peek-a-boo
Played alone
With clouds

The sepia remains
So do the clouds
Does time
Really heal?


Five minute writing exercise on a particulary swamped day. Feel peaceful. Felt like free verse. The rest is here to see.