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.