Originally posted here.

He rings the bell. On the dot, always at the same time. One could fix the clock with his evening routine. It was a practiced one now. The lights would be dimmed, an instrumental music of a different kind would play in the background and the curtains to the windows would be open. The city lights sparkling into the night. She would be watching TV, reading a book, or fixing a light supper, or even dabbing some perfume behind her ears when the bell would go off.

She’d skip out to the front pausing ever so slightly to peek into the mirror next to the door. She’d check herself as he’d watch her through the glass panel. The excitement simmering through various reflections. She’d open the door, and he’d step in smiling. He would scoop her in his arms and kick the door shut with his foot. As she’d throw her arms around him, he’d bend down to nuzzle her neck.

He’d half lift her and seat her on the couch and they’d spend the next few moments, talking of their day. Fingers locked, her legs across his thighs; as he’d caress her hair, her waist and her toes. Her excited chatter interrupted by gasps and laughs. She’d share everything with him. He’d pause to listen as his eyes would soak in her warmth and happiness. He was happy seeing her laugh. That’s the least he could give her he had decided a long time ago. The laughter and joy that he spread through scores of people and audiences, he wanted her to be a part of it. She would laugh when he was with her.

Almost always she cried when he left. She would be brave, but he could see through her veil.

The bittersweet decision he had to always make while standing outside her door. The reason that made him turn around and leave. He was no good with emotions. Laughter he thrived on, but tears made a complete wuss of him. He could not bring himself to console her or say a quiet word, lay a hand on her and hold her in silence. Instead he’d let her cry, a captured soul waiting for a lull in her breaths when he could flee the scene.

The sheets would be cool against her warm skin. The kisses through the smiles, the heat in the skin, and the ardor that lay beneath it all. She’d snuggle up to him, touch him, hold him, and pleasure him. Her engrossed serious face as he looked down on her triggered waves of fondness that always took him by surprise. He could not bring himself to sweet-talk, or use endearments much to her consternation. During these moments however, she woke a gentler side of him, one that would add curves around his lips, a narrowing of his eyes and a deep intake of breath, and one that spoke volumes that only his heart heard. He’d slip his fingers through her hair and hold her close, kissing her with a sudden surge in passion, almost as if she’d flicked a switch on.

The moments would melt between lust and love, the pain and the pleasure, the screams and the moans. They’d end it with each glistening in the other , a pair locked in a state of delirium.

That was how they spent their nights. He’d occasionally stay longer, or leave right after dinner. It all depended on his schedule in his blackberry.

This Thursday was different. From the moment he entered there was a visible tenderness and warmth in his touch. She went through the motions until they lay exhausted in each other’s arms. With a peck on her neck, he lifts himself up to get off the bed.

She whispers “You were so good today.”

He smiles, “So were you baby.”

She traces his lips and replies, “No, today was special. There was something..”

Holding her finger between his teeth, he mutters “Something? Like what?”

She smiles,” I donno, I’ve always felt it. There’s this bond between us.. that’s why we are so good together.”

He laughs.

Pushing her away, he sits at the edge of the bed and pulls his pants on. Walking towards the bathroom, he pauses with the light on, leans against the door and says “Have to be home soon, wife’s brother’s family is in town.“he adds with a slight mock in his tone, “You are a woman and I am a man, and that’s the only reason we are good together. Nothing more. ”

The door shuts.

The lights for the coming Durga Pujo were being strung outside her apartment, and she could hear the workers beneath. Through her 3rd floor window, a sudden harsh band of light comes through, flooding her sheets and her skin in crimson.

“So this is how a new entrant to the Sonagachi on the other side of the city must feel” she murmured aloud.

Just body, nothing more.

Freedom in an empty locked house. She walked over to the guest room. The full length mirror reflected a bit of the mid-morning sunlight through the window.

The thud of the towel on the hardwood floor was muffled. She eyed the now banded reflection with veiled disinterest, like one would a pack of chicken breasts at the deli. Lowering her eyes and she started from the floor.

Her feet. The pedicure with the bright red toes with white flowers on the big toe was fading. Her second toe longer, the last curved and tucked in for comfort. The thin yellow anklet throbs at her ankle. The mottled imperfect old oval scar from a past escapade. The shin, smooth and shining, a straight line across her curved calves. Strong cafe-au-lait curved bows in perfect symmetry.

Her knees. Ugh. The scars of bike rides and of the scalpels in a rushed disarray of folds and dips, resembling dark coffee mounds.

Her thighs. Light beige and mellow compared to where they took off, they were rounded and lay strong. They’d changed shape she’d noticed. Once thin, hours of fat, muscle, and exercise had now changed their course to tough. Pirouetting on her toes, she watched the the sides move in unison. A woman’s thighs, she decided: not a girl’s, not a man’s, not a child’s.

Her hips. Wincing inwardly, she placed her palms on her wide square, rounded hips. Pinching at a piece of tan flesh, she ruefully thought of how once that was impossible. It was easy now. Flesh-pinching, that is. Baby fat, just like babies never really leave the mother.

Her unique part of the body. She now turned her attention to the kangaroo pouch. Except that there was no more little roo inside, and yet the pouch hung large, scarred and useless. Stretch marks in different hues of ochre, tan, white, taupe and sepia, the oldest mingling with the most recent, signs of borne responsibilities. She grabbed the piece of flesh that lay there. It fit her palm, and more. A crescent-shaped heavy piece of extra fold. One that increased with each child, and had left behind its mark. Breathing in made it look rotten. A vestige. A rotting boat in the brackish waters. It was ugly, even to her, and it was her own. The memory of a flat belly buried within its largely bloated remnants.

Her belly button. Dark, mysterious and half open, she had flaunted with great pride. With the marks creeping to lay alongside of it as if in guard, it resembled a rusty brown keyhole. One that no key would dare come close.

Her waist. Sandy soil beach. It still curved where it should on the sides. Placing her palms on either side, she willed them to meet. A good three inches apart the fingers stood facing off throwing creamy froth between them. A long time ago, they had overlapped and thumb wars raged and tickled her innards. Twisting to her side, she observed: not a six pack, heck not even two dimensional anymore. A robust visible sandy mound that dipped from below her chest onto her belly button. A treat for clear water drops in the shower.

Her arms. Like two dark branches of burnt sienna, they stretched into little pudgy fingers. Once lissome, lean and thin, they still were, except that the elbow was just a shade darker, her muscles with just a bit of flab, and the veins on the back of her palm stood out angry. Nothing delicate anymore.

Her chest. Tired naked limp breasts hung on either side. With her palms, she coerced them into a cleavage. Dark black nipples threatened to take over the small expanse of legal fat she showed off. Push-up bras were a blessing, a necessity.

Her neck. Shielding her eyes away from the joke, she traveled further up. Faint copper wires lined her neck. Stretching it, she willed them to disappear, but as she had found out later, about fat cells and their creeping in, almost always leave behind a wake. This was the visible wake she’d have to live and sleep with.

Her lips. Once supple, light and traceable, they reeked of bitter tales. Stranded bars of dark chocolate in the afternoon sun, the lines merged and melted forming a crater of molten charcoal.

Her hair. Black, shiny and thick of the past now morphed to, coppery auburn, haggard and stringy. A sick lioness’ mane.

Finally, she meets her eyes.

Dispassionate. Flat. Hazel.

Dead.

Tags: color, fable