Friday, February 23, 2007

The Sixer

It is darker. I find her waiting for me. She opens the door. I look into her eyes and she looks at me and let me in. She doesn't say anything. I don’t say anything. But we have spoken. I know that she is angry that I am late. I know that her anger is mixed with happiness and anticipation. I notice that she is wearing the Sari I like the most. I notice the eyeliner, the mascara, and lipstick which are accentuating her quivering lips. I know there are little droplets of sweat on her forehead threatening to run down her face spoiling her makeup. I notice fresh polish on her nails which she is growing long because I like long nails. I know she is raising her arms deliberately to make that tinkling sounds I like from her bangles. I see her feet, freshly pedicured , cozily ensconced in long heels I once picked for her. I notice her fiddling with ring on her finger I gifted her. I notice her thick mane spread over her back. I know she has let her hair open just the way I like it. I see those long, bell shaped long ear rings dangling in her ear lobes. I can hear her heart beating faster. I can sense her bosom rising and falling beyond her control. I smell the warm fragrance she is wearing which she knows makes me intoxicated. I know there is a lump in her throat ready to melt when I speak. We sit there. I don’t speak anything. She doesn’t say anything. I know that she has spent hours getting ready for me. She wants me to notice all of her. She wants me to notice that tonight she is all what I want her to be. I pretend I haven't. I know that she wants me to hold her hands. I know she wants me to look into her eyes and tell her how beautiful she is looking. I know she wants me to bury my face in her nape, close my eyes and tell her how nice she smells. I know she wants me to run my hands over her arms and tell her how silken they feel. I know she wants me me to bite her ear and whisper how much I love her. I see the candles she has lit up on candle stand on the table. I see the red roses I had given her in the vase which she has still kept wet with water. I know she will keep them that way until they can not be anymore. I see the candle flame devouring the wax with incorrigible hunger and in ferocious silence. The wax melts, the flame sustains.

I get up and walk towards table. I Pick up the remote and switch on TV. Match is on. I press on the remote, TV responds, volume is upped. I slump into the couch. Batsman comes on front foot and hit the ball hard, his bat and his arms in unison, lunging with brute force towards sky. The ball soars over the sky, going upwards and upwards until it loses its battle with gravity and starts its descent flying way outside the stadium and into the trees.

1 comment:

Tarun Chandel said...

Ha ha... nice story surely the World cup Fever is ON!!! That poor girl is the World Cup widow.