Hoth pe liye hue dil ki baat hum
Jaagte rahenge aur kitni raat hum
Mukhtasar si baat hai tumse pyaar hai
Tumhara intezaar hai

The old creaky transistor lazily crooned the soporific number vocalized by Hemant Kumar, rattling of the windows adding to the pain. Ajay had been tossing in his bed restlessly. Not being able to cope with the finer nuances of love, he was devastated. Seeing his beloved getting close to another guy in front of him was something he never dreaded, for he never anticipated such to happen. Even though he had never proposed to her, he thought she loved him, as the look in her eyes always professed, as the time spent between them always seemed surreal and intimate.

Dil behel to jayega iss khayal se
Haal mil gaya tumhara apne haal se
Raat yeh qarar ki beqarar hai
Tumhara intezaar hai

After pondering his thoughts over these lines of the song, he somehow was pacified. Maybe he should ask her out. Maybe he shouldn't. Is there any hope? Is there any scope for a hope? His mind was clouded by unpractical questions and hazy answers, like the mystic moon which was shrouded by the clouds.

Khwaab chun rahi hai raat, beqarar hai
Tumhara intezaar hai, tum pukar lo

Just when he was getting affirmative, his mobile sang 'Tumse hi din hota hai, surmai shaam aati hai, tumse hi'. His smile snubbed the pensive mood, and he picked the phone singing, "Main kahi bhi jaata hu, tumse hi mil jaata hu, tumse hi, tumse hi, raaste mil jaate hai, manzilen mil jaati hai, tumse hi, tumse hi."

Her chuckle was followed by a quivering voice as she recited a couplet ' "Zariye aur bhi hai dil lagane ke, par yeh dil hai ki tujhse uqta hi nahi." (There are many others ways to get occupied, yet I never get bored of you.)

Along came a new day, and a new beginning.


"Another night of turbulence, another night of fidgeting," she thought to herself as he entered the room, as he entered her. She had always spread her legs for him, just like numerous other chores she never enjoyed doing for him, like cooking a five-course meal for him twice a day, studying his silences, arguing over finances, waiting for a hope, waiting for a hopeless hope.

Few drops made their way out from her tightly gripped eyes, as she waited for the slaughter to end. When he was done, he kept lying on her, panting profusely. She looked at her hands, her arms, touched her face, her stomach, her genital. Bruises were deeper than they looked. The only happiness in her world was his premature ejaculation!

She had had enough. His passive face made her furious today. She had lost the battle in her mind of giving him yet another chance, giving him time. As he lit his cigarette, she turned her face towards him. Exhaling the smoke on her face, he couldn't notice the resilience. Without saying a word, she got up, looked towards his crotch area and kicked with all her might between his legs. He screamed his guts out. She again kicked on the same area. Then she stubbed out his cigarette on his face, letting him cry hoarse.

He had sought pleasure out of her pain for so many years, now was her avenge.

Along came a new day, and a new beginning.


Mesmerized by the sonata of the chimes unwontedly hung in the corner of the verandah, Payal looked at him from the corner of her eyes. The flickering of the flames on his face from the bonfire entranced her. Was Deepak surrounded by an aura she never saw, or was she hallucinating? She looked straight into his eyes, and the glance was welcomed by his smiling eyes. The eyes welled up, but none of them blinked. Their gaze was distracted by a huge splash in the river flowing by. She kept looking at him while he looked for the unfamiliarity in the sound of the flow of the river. When Deepak looked back at her, his gaze was transfixed. She looked lovelier than ever. Her beauty was enchanting. "I'm not sure if I'd able to resist the temptation anymore," he said with his tone adamant.

She had made up her mind, finally. He was the one. Seeing a smile breaking, he went closer to her and caressed her face. She didn't fidget this time. "Finally, I'm going to kiss you, my bride of two months."

The flickering silhouettes of their passion were accompanied by many a moan and chuckle in that log-hut that night.

Along came a new day, and a new beginning.


The night doesn't just belong to the hooting owls and howling wolves in this metropolitan. The yet-to-be-born child was desperate to come out of the dungeon and face the world. Soma was feeling the child inside her kicking her, fidgeting, wriggling, causing her abdomen pain incessantly. She asked again when would the ambulance arrive. Vivek was equally restless, the sweat on his face not tickling him anymore. He called the local cab, for waiting for ambulance in this city of dreams where chaos reigns after midnight would be stupidity.

As the Maruti Omni screeched to start, she held his hand tight, murmuring, "Amma Bauji hume sveekar kar lenge na iske aane ke baad? Hamara pyaar jeetega na? Hum apne ghar, apne sheher jaa sakenge na?" He kissed her forehead and comforted her, "Mera baccha, itni fikar mat kar, sab theek ho jayega. Sab sveekar kar lenge hume, bhool jayenge humne unki na-manzoori se shaadi kari thi. Tu bas bhagwan ka naam le Somu."

A loud thud accompanied with vicious jerks tossed them several times, the van still honking. Their hands were separated during the crash, and the first thing Vivek did after regaining consciousness was clasp her hand. But the hand that used to comfort him had gone numb. There was no movement. As he stooped to check her, an excruciating pain hit him on his head, sending him numb. Again, the hands were separated.

The ambulance arrived finally. They had died, but an iota of their love survived.

Along came a new day, and a new beginning.


The sun was setting in a jiffy. She lazily threw a glance at the melting colors on the horizon, merging reluctantly with the clouds. The coffee mug had no marks of her bright lipstick. Cold like her heart. The honking at the street under her balcony had diffused suddenly. The paranoia of the milieu had ceased momentarily it seemed. She smirked at the darkness around her. There was a strange warmth now, marked with a shudder. As time lapsed, she was no longer floating over the hazy expanse of unrequited love and piercing togetherness and painstakingly cherished nostalgia and treasured sweet nothings and casual ex-pressions of love and phony promises and sincere cravings and a lifetime of anticipation.

The door bell rang profusely. Then the door was rammed. Then there was an awkward silence. Then there was a wail. And then, there was an awkward silence, yet again.

No trace of blood. Not a blemish on the veins. No ex-pression of torment. She lay there quietly, her smirk making it impossible to gauge her state of mind before she took the final plunge. The verve was lost into oblivion long time back. What was left was now lying in pale flesh and blood, with no soul. She had bid adieu, albeit with a smirk.

The labyrinth of her cravings yet echoed within the four walls.

Her fist had a small crumpled paper. He took out the paper precariously, as if not to wake her from deep slumber. The words on that paper had a whipping effect on his heart. He was never so guilty. He never regretted anything as much. Today he realized, what love meant. What giving meant. What loving back meant.

Along came a new morning, and a new beginning.


Four guys neared their car. She stopped crooning her favorite song as these guys approached them and asked for a lighter. Samarth gave his lighter, but these guys stood there, lighted their cigarettes and started asking them embarrassing questions. When Samarth retaliated, one of them took out a knife and pointed it towards his torso.

Horrified on seeing the knife, Neelisha blurted out a valiant cry. But it was cut short by a tall guy who put a handkerchief on her face. She struggled but couldn't escape his grope. Samarth couldn't improvise on his heroics as one guy banged his head with a hockey stick. He fell over to ground, with bleak senses, but enough to witness the slaughter of his best friend.

She was filled with a fleshy gloom and dreadful anonymity from all corners. They weren't kind enough to ravage her in turns. Infringing every speck of her, they shattered her peaks, syringed her hollows, squashed her fullness, sandpapered her goose bumps, calloused her ripeness, battered her squeaks, tarnished her soul and blurred her vision. Samarth was left free when these four guys caroused and celebrated their triumph.

They rushed to the hospital, then police station, then hospital again, then police station. When they finally were free, a mob of reporters assaulted them with even embarrassing questions. They were left speechless. There were questions which even they couldn't answer.

The next day, all the leading dailies reported in bold ' A couple making out in a public place punished by the community.

Along came a new day, and a new beginning.


The sea was getting restless, as they walked along the shore. As usual he took her hand in his and started singing. She was blushing as he was singing the soulful types. She knew his mood is romantic today. Then he serenaded her with their latest toothsome number ' "Soniyo, tumhe dekhta hu to sochta hu bas yahi, tum jo mera saath do, saare gham bhulake, jee lu muskuraake zindagi, tu dede mera saath thaam le haath". She was so overwhelmed with his crooning that she didn't realize when he stopped her. Drawing her closer, he put his hand around her waist and started swaying. She was enjoying every bit of it.

The lash of the waves drenched them and the moonlight glistened their wet faces. He walked her to a rock nearby, took out a candle from his back pocket and lit it with a lighter. She couldn't digest what was he up to. His filmi reply, "You look so beautiful on the flicker of a candle that I had this urge to behold that sight. I'm tired of imagining, you see" made her blush and slap on his shoulder, "You are so cheesy, Karan."

"Shona, I know I'm cheesy. But believe me, your presence makes me cheesy, I can't help it. Perhaps in your absence, even your thoughts make me cheesy", he looked into her eyes as if whatever he said made complete sense to her. She kissed his palm and said, "And I like when you become cheesy, Jaan", even she didn't know what she was acknowledging. Maybe it was the ambience, or his company, or the moon light, or the rush of the waves, or maybe, just love.

"Shona, you know I really love your name, Natasha. But you know, it's kinda incomplete. It should have a suffix I think."

"Suffix? As in a stupid superlative? Like that Natasha + Sunshine = Natashanshine types? Perhaps oxymorons?"

"No re baba, I'm not cheesy right now. What I meant was, umm, like, like…"

"What's wrong with you Karan? You are not coming up with a name? Shucks. That's weird."

"You know, Natasha should have suffixes like Natasha Bhabhi, Natasha Didi, Natasha Mausi, Natasha Chachi, Natasha Beti, Natasha Bua. Yaa. Natasha Bhabhi. Imagine my lil sis calling you Natasha Bhabhi. Imagine my niece calling you Natasha Chachi."

"What?"

"Yes, Natasha Chachi is cute na? Imagine you will always hear her sweet voice, calling your perfect name ' Natasha Chachi. Hey, marry me Natasha, if not for me, then for the sake of my cute niece who loves you, for the sake of my lil sis who got a confidant in you, for the sake of these cute suffixes which will complete your name, and complete my life".

She was completely taken aback by what he said. Her confusion showed on her face, thinking if he was serious or was it just another of his leg-pulling and filmi dialogue. She waited for him to speak more, so that she could gauge if he meant what he said.

"Shona, say yes, else I have other ways to coax you to accept my proposal".

"Other ways? So are you going to do zabardasti with this bholi bhaali ladki?" she batted her eyelids as she spoke, with her hands enwrapping her chest.

"Yes, I'll have to resort to other ways then, say yes na, please. Please marry me shona, my nuts baby, my Natashanshine".

She was teasing him by prolonging the acceptance. He then said, "Okay, you called for it, now don't say you were embarrassed". She didn't know that on a blow of a whistle, hordes of people would emerge from the corner of the beach. A band started playing typical marriage orchestra, and then, his niece, sister, brother, friends, all came near her singing and dancing to the tune, "Isse shaadi karogi, kya isse shaadi karogi?"

He was right. He did coax her to accept his proposal.

Along came a new day, and a new beginning.

Fin.

 

We sat there peacefully, content, holding hands like we always did.

 

The women were wailing. Daughter beating her chest like a woman possessed. She was close to her mother. Few men talking about how strong was she, my wife. This was a proud moment for me. I clutched her hands firmly. She doused her face with a warm smile.

 

A distant relative was crying her heart out. She seemed to have been affected the most. Why? Was my wife so close to her? I doubt. "I was her role model", pat came her reply to my thought. "Ahaa, so you have started to read my mind already. Pretty swift that was sweetheart."

 

The body was ready to be immersed into endless flames. The eldest one, with tears in his eyes, held the wooden stave (baton) and was supposed to squash her skull, but started crying. The priest, an old hat, in the middle of his chants patted on his shoulder and said, "Unhe swarg ka dwar dikhaiye, fod dijiye sarr" (Open the heaven's doors for her, squash her head). He was as resilient as me, and bid her goodbye finally.  She was diminishing as the pyre burnt.

 

Few gentlemen, wearing crisp white kurtas with dark glasses were discussing how the skull if not broken can be misused by those babas, how they can impersonate a dead being and fornicate with their body, what powers they have got, besides other odds and ends.

 

While everyone was crying, we were holding each other's hand with varying movements. It had been a decade after all.

 

"Why are they crying so much for you? They never looked so remorseful when I died", I was a tad astonished.

 

"Simply because you had a natural death, a satisfactory one. Mine was tragic", she was again reasoning, a habit I had known in her since I had started loving her. Or maybe a habit that I had known in her since I had started knowing her, which would have maybe led me to love her. Too many maybes her, ceteris paribus.

 

"But why are they crying since we are rejoicing? Idiots. Don't they know we are re-uniting after a decade? They should perhaps celebrate. Two lovers meeting after a long hiatus. I had waited for you since long, not carrying on to my next birth."

 

"Yes. I agree with you, swami."

 

"Are you trying to be sarci here? Swami and all, eh?"

 

"One is supposed to be profound after being deceased, right, swami?"

 

"Okay, I'd consider this one justified."

 

Finally the concerned people left us. Not just the cremation ground, but the ties, the relationship, the sense of belonging. The priest gave them a twig each, and after he chanted a few verses, everyone knelt down with their back on us, and threw the twigs over their shoulder, in our direction. Is that all? The circle of life ends here? Is a twig and few verses are all it takes to unbelong?

 

It was evening now. The cacophony of the humans was replaced by the birds. The trees were buzzing with squeaks ' innocent and peaceful. We sat there peacefully, content, holding hands like we always did. It's been a ritual for us. Holding hands. Through certain maneuvers of our damp palms, we used to emote, express.

 

A slight clutch would mean reassurance while walking through the crowd. A feeling of I'm-there-for-you-forever, I'm-yours. Fights would end with holding hands. If one of the partners doesn't play around with the fingers, then the war is still on. A tight clutch would mean the dust has settled. Matching the tip of the fingers heralded a frivolous mood, only to end with a tight clutch, which meant I-can't-get-enough-of-you.

 

When the passion overflowed, hands would seek solace in the chasm between the thigh and calf of either of the partners - a stronger and tighter clutch. Intimacy found a new meaning when the conjoined hands ran through each other's body, and ultimately, caressed our souls. Whilst the back of the hands seduced, the rough palm gave a new meaning to life. It was above seduction. It was Moksha. The enlightenment. The truth. This was what Kama Sutra taught, every Guru advised - to find the ultimate pleasure that is beyond intercourse. Whenever we held each other's hand, we felt that our souls connected.

 

We had braved storms of vulnerabilities, high tides of depressions, lightening of suspicions, floods of insecurities, blizzards of differences; just by holding hands. No words uttered. Just simple maneuverings of the palm.

 

"You see there, our daughter, she still is mourning, poor soul", she was worrying about her daughter.

 

"I know, crying incessantly. Crazy girl she always has been."

 

"Wish I could tell her about Moksha and Karma. How the cycle of life is completed, how every birth is connected, how I was supposed to be your wife in this birth, and she is supposed to be my mother in the next. How funny this Karma is, isn't it? I mean, you were my wife earlier."

 

"Yep. A funny thing certainly. And these people are still crying over for what they've lost, not realizing what they'll gain. You are right, wish we could tell them the ultimate truth, bestow upon them Moksha, enlightening them about Karma, that we never die, we just changes bodies. It's a cycle life follows."

 

With eerie hoots and insipid fluttering of wings, bats took to the calm of the night, fleeting by blind-folded. Ash had a strange orange glow now, accentuating her aura. And we sat there peacefully, content, holding hands like we always did.

 

Clasping wasn't passion anymore, but a routine. Carnal needs and desires hitchhiked to a state of arousal, and sunk in an unfamiliar state of eerie silence. The breaths deceived. When pacing, they puffed of someone else's lovemaking skills. When gasping, they panted of a fulfilled orgasm but unsatiated needs. When hushed, the breathings murmured secret cravings and determined conspiracies.
She was lying next to him, but close to someone else.

It was his plan of letting her go. For he knew, it won't be easy to hold her back. She was attracted to someone physically, and it showed. The long hours of dressing up. The extra long hours at work. The prominent 'headaches'. The occasional flowers and 'self-indulgences'. The smell of different fragrances everyday on her peaks and hollows. They all were shouting of trouble. He could decipher all, but not her feelings.

Being a cuckold was the last thing he wanted himself to be. Damn, the truth. It was coming onto him furiously like a pest, eating him in a pace undesirable, peeling off his skin with occasional pinches, sucking off his fuming nerves, and trying to leave him in a mashed heap of sorry bones ' no body organs, no heart and no feelings.

Reviving the relationship would scar his ego, he thought. After all, he can't act trying too hard, asking for long drives, quiet dinners, romantic getaways, painting together, etc. He had never strived. She was an easy-going girl, then an easy lay, then a buddy. And then, a soulmate, or it seemed so. A well-synchronized relationship, cascading like the sequenced waterfalls thronging those coffeetable books.

Becoming a sarcastic jerk wasn't hard for him, for he jibed at the drop of a hat, mocking, screeching, shrieking, and adding facts to his off-colored jokes, if not being impertinent. But even that won't help him. Perhaps it would help her, as it would get easy for her to detach herself from his gropes. He felt hapless, for he neither could afford to let go of her, nor have her. He loved her as much as he hated her now.

Maybe it's his fault, he thought. He couldn't catch up with her fast-paced life. She was impulsive, freaky and snappy. He was refined, romantic, and a recluse. Where she would party even on weekdays, he would slog hours at his study or garden on weekends. Though initially they had clicked together, and she loved his way of life, perhaps more than that, she loved him. But then, how long can love sustain apathy, withstand boredom? She had to get back to her skin. And she did.

He had a harrowing time imagining a lifetime without her. A lifetime without coquetting under the mellow sun, without sharing the quilt under the blessing stars, without apologizing for the occasional belches and without blushing for the occasional flowers gifted. Distant thoughts of being stranded without love at sixty with a hunched back and broken teeth troubled him.

On the other hand, in her heart, love had died ever so long ago. The familiar had become foreign for her. Pleasant had become sore. From being docile, she had become hostile. For her, the clock had stopped ticking once love jaded. She hated the unhurried lifestyle now, in the suburbs. She hated the silence here. No more she was receptive to the humming of the breeze. The croaking of the frogs. The flapping of the lotus leaves. The chirping of the crickets. She hated the smell here. The sweet smell of the mangroves. The heady smell of the mogra. The earthy smell of the wet grass and mud.

Even the eye had lost its sense of proportion, the focus had wavered to things in motion, than still.

Every action of his irritated her - be it romantic, sweet, mature, puerile, considerate or amusing. She fought with him over anything. The more he tried to pacify, the more she retorted, and finally alienated herself from him. Adversity had opened its arm, creeping like a nightmare.

Part 2

"So where have you been?" he asked her lighting his cigar.

"Why the hell are you not shaving?" she tried to divert from the question pounced on her.

"What for?"

Something kept her mum. After few moments, she avenged, "Just because I don't feel like doing it, doesn't mean you stop behaving like a human being. For Christ's sake, get a grip on yourself."

After looking deep into her eyes, he quipped, "Okay, I know what am I doing. I'm waiting for my wife to return every night, with anticipation, that today she might be receptive." "And then, I also pray every night that she doesn't arrive dead drunk."

"I need space."

"What has space to do with drinking crazy?"

"You have no inkling what I've been going through."

"As if I never wanted to lend an ear?"

"Forget it. I need sleep. A good sleep."

"Yes, you indeed need a good sleep."

Part 3

The faith in self had dwindled, so he strived to get back to himself. Going away could be a solution. The 250cc engine thumped across the streets and revved into oblivion. He was not only carrying the burden of the beautiful past with him, but the brutality of the present as well. The light of this sturdy beauty focused on the road, while his mind focused on his new novel, and the way he was cuckolded.

"The scorn didn't haunt anymore, for she was free from the gropes of her turbulent past." As he praised himself for the progress in his story, he praised himself for letting her go. She never was his. "Weak women hardly created any ruckus." Thoughts of his wife bruising his ego disturbed him. "The Bitch." Two words which he couldn't bring into use then, now made way for the title of his novel.

"That she was a shame to the society, that she was a blot on the history of her family, that she was adorned with lust for another man, it never bothered her. She must live the life she wanted to live. She was destined to be a rebel. A rebel with a cause. It takes a lifetime for a woman to repel. She just took few months to settle the scores and end the marriage."

Discontent wind was piercing him through his thick jacket. Slowing the velocity, he recollected how she had made things easier, making new rules for him. He can go out and party. He can fornicate with other women. He can drink crazy. Never had any woman in his life given him so many liberties.

With thoughts being indexed in his mind, he got excited. This was the story he could alter, unlike his own. The world should know what he went through, albeit through a fiction. A fiction so well experienced.

As he left the sleepy town on the foothills, an exuberant breeze greeted him, throwing him back into the memories of his honeymoon. The trees, breeze, birds, peaks, flowers, greens, all looked chirpy on the drive uphill. Now, everything about the nature was gloomy.

"Some women delve deep into a relationship to ensure there is joy. Some women just tag along for the sake of it as they don't see any hope. And some women, well, they change the course. Isn't it interesting to know that women who change the course are the most vulnerable of the lot? For, they change the course as often."

The story was progressing at a pace he didn't fathom. He was the tailor, cutting the cloth from all sides, giving it the contours he desired, running the needle faster than his imagination. When the wheel of the machine would rev up, his past would make it screech, and limp for a moment. She used to behave like a teenager, too adamant. Sometimes she'd behave like a revolutionary, too focused. And sometimes, she'd wear the garb of a schizophrenic, laughing when he's serious and fuming when he's concerned.

A narrow lane leaded to another town, lesser known, lesser thriving. Taking that road, canopies further hid the skies that glittered with stars innumerous and an arced, pouting moon that looked pensive for its waning glory. Spot lighting the trees and scanning the craters on the road was the light of his bike. The only light on that road.

"She had lied to him. She had cheated. She had sinned. She ought to be taught a lesson. Letting her free would be the best lesson for her. She ought to be freed, from his clutches, from the clutches of every element he knew. She ought to be freed, from his past, present and future. She ought to be erased, from his memory, his love, his cravings, his lust, his passions. She ought to be freed."

Two mature people cannot go on pretending there's nothing wrong. They cannot wait for things to happen. She had confessed that she was bored of this relationship. She had professed her desire to be freed. She had accepted the fact that she was too liberated to lead a simplistic life.

Solitude. Silence. Gloom. Silhouettes. Apprehensions. Inhibitions. Yore. There were so many acquaintances waiting for him on every blind curve.

"But his love for her was sacred. He worshipped her. He breathed her. He cared for her. He couldn't harm her, ever. She left him without any guilt. He let her free without any prejudice. She left him for someone else. He freed her for her happiness."

This was for the first time in the entire journey that he had smiled. He liked the story so far. This could be the part 1. The second part would deal with her relationship with the new man, and how short-lived it would be. It would end in a jiffy. And she would lead a depressed life. And she would lose it soon thereafter. And she would be admitted to an asylum. And then, he would re-connect with her, help her come out of her disturbed thoughts. His love would overpower her problems. He surely would be the hero of this romantic. The ultimate romance. Love, that transcends logic, self, inhibitions and norms. The ultimate love. A love story that would not become an epic only after the protagonists sacrifice their life. The protagonists would survive, through all the odds.

A known tinge of indigo enveloped the sky. Chirping of his favorite birds was hushed by the blare of his machine. The air carried the sweet smell of the vines. The trees, breeze, birds, peaks, flowers, greens, all looked chirpy, all over again. He had forgotten the last night. The gory night. Of revenge, wrath, slaughter, bloodshed, realization, guilt, fear, and eloping.

No one knows what lies ahead, and because curiosity is greater than fear, and truth is stranger than fiction, we all are searching, like our predecessors. Actually trying hard to face the future. Just like buying an umbrella on the onset of black clouds hovering upon the mauve sky like the ghosts of the 18th century.

18th century. What a period in the history of mankind. It was then when inventions were greased to the hilt. When unsure presumptions and sure assumptions were realized onto beautiful, surprising discoveries. The world was coming to a state where everything was named. And if already named, then converted into the local language. And synonyms hence were scurrying into infinity. Recreational activities were being enjoyed with the equals of sexual explorations. What lies ahead was fast being answered.

And here is a story of one woman named Kalingini, who couldnt know what surprise lied ahead.

Kalingini was a whippersnapper. She wasn't a bright and bubbly kid, but had always a look that said, I'm special. Her emerald eyes, that special tinge of green, had something to be explored. The eyes that seemed to hide as many secrets as they revealed. Everyone was enamored of her astute, defiant eyes. Even the beams of the heartless sun couldn't match up to the destructive vibes of her eyes. Where her eyes bedazzled, they even baffled. Because eyes of that special hue of green weren't a normal sight. They were accused to be of a royal background. She ought to be a descendent of some Persian or Turkish queen, retorted everyone of the Sindh province. And her dimple only added to their adamant remarks.

Kalingini wasn't from an untouchable stratum. But still she was devoid of any contact with other kids. That was because of her eyes. Those cat-like eyes were fabled to be magical. The word magical would be an understatement for the highly orthodox Indians of that era. So the synonym 'super natural' was imposed on her eyes. No wonder when she grew up, she wasn't even greeted with delight. She was a girl who was mysterious enough to play her mojo, or that's what people believed.

Her miserable parents were quite tensed about the fact. Her father, who worked as a lumberjack, was always amused on hearing that she's a magic woman; she is from a royal background etc. But what broke his heart was that there was no family who thought otherwise. She had turned 13, carrying on her round shoulders the tag of 'unmarried'. Girls by then bore kids, or were enjoying the nitty-gritties of a family life.

In her 14th spring, there were turns of events. There came a proposal from a faraway land, the land of forts and deserts and dunes and oasis, camels and concubines and bright clothes, gold and diamonds and emeralds and sapphires. The land that was dipped in history, the land that was surreal under the starry nights. The land that many vowed by, the land many were amused by, fascinated by. Surely, the proposal was more than a kill.

The groom's family was a modest family, simple and down-to-earth. Kalingini couldn't have asked for more. And the best part came just a fortnight before the marriage. It was agreed that the dowry would be minimal, as the groom's family was pretty well off. All they wanted was that Kalingini carry what she wanted, her ornaments and clothes, and that's it. 'Marriages are made in heaven'. Surely it was an ethereal marriage, at least for Kalingini's family.

The full moon after Deepawali was chosen the auspicious day by the groom's family priest. 35 out of 36 gurn (traits) matched according to their Janampatri (kundli), another high! Celebrations were started in full swing, and every night at either place was a gala party. At groom's there wasn't much than social gatherings, and at bride's it was more of custom and rituals. Traditional dance and songs that have been doing the rounds for several decades were again invited to Kalingini's family. Aged women came up with a song for every possible moment. When a girl bathes, to when she's smeared turmeric, sandalwood and then washed away with rose water and saffron milk. When she's applied Henna on her hands to when she's given new attire, to when she wears new attire. And then there are songs that start from when groom rides the horse to when his brother dances in the baraat. N number of songs they had, these women.

The marriage ceremony was pretty simple, and wasn't too lavish as it could have been, considering that the groom, Pushkin, was a royal worker. He worked at the Durbar (court) of His Majesty. Another feather in his cap.

Marriage ceremonies those days didn't last till the wee hours of morning. Everything was scrapped before midnight. Then the groom and bride would be mocked at by the women, and locked in a room where a bed full of roses and other feel-good stuff invited them, making the ambience very amiable. A clean sheet of white enwrapped the wooden bed, as a custom so as to check the virginity of the bride the next morning. This was the first time that this couple was with each other, alone. This was the first time they would see each other, face to face. Though they tried to glance at each other while during the ceremony, but all they could see was a figure drenched in clothes and other stuff. Now was the time.

The women outside sang songs assuming the groom must have lifted her pallu (veil) by now, and drank water so to energize themselves to sing aloud when they hear the wail of the bride as she's deflowered. But inside the room was a different story altogether. Though the groom did lift her pallu, see her face, touch her earlobes and caress her, but nothing happened further according to the customary songs. As she looked at him, she was awed. Her face was blushed with happiness. He was indeed handsome, 18 years of age, and a royal Durbaan (courtier). His regal status was accentuated with the white Turban he wore. She certainly was enamored, but threw her glance to the earth as he stared back.

While he tilted her chin with his tender finger to have a close look, she started breathing heavily. The track of respiratory tract was now shifted from her nose to her mouth. She knew what was coming. Her mother had apprised her of the suhaag raat (first night) when she had shed some blood and attained menarche, four years back. Still in her teens, yet she was mature enough to handle this, was what her married friends told her some days back. She was nervous, yet excited. A sinful dark world that has been much talked about was finally about to be unraveled. No more fiddling around with herself!

But her desires had to wait. He sat beside her, and slowly while caressing her earlobes, started kissing it. She was plunged into a state of ecstasy that cannot be defined in words, seen, but felt, perhaps heartfelt. Her facial ex-pressions were oblivious of what she had in mind, to not show how you feel right away, but wait for the right moment. A trick her mother taught to induce men, for eternity. So as she gave up on that trick, he hushed in her ear, "I think we should spend the rest of the night at the palace." She smirked and retorted, "Why, isn't this place less than a palace?" He had a plain look on his face when he said, "No, it's better out there. It's grand. Let's make our first night truly memorable. I'll take you to a section of the palace that's reserved for special guests." Though it seemed uncanny, yet she agreed to his proposal.

A camel was waiting for them on the backside of the house. While she was lifted by him, she felt his fingers supporting her, rather melting her. She was now longing for him, yet couldn't do anything, had to wait till they reached the palace. He then sat behind her, and they started for the Royal Fort. The camel was walking slowly, giving jerks now and then. And those jerks made her heave with anticipation. She was enjoying him on her back, stroking his chest on her back every now and then. She was feeling him. She was dreaming him. She was enjoying him. And then her desires burst into million splashes and she had an orgasm! To call it an orgasm would be an understatement. It was a victory of thoughts over physicality. It was a celebration of voyeuristic pleasures. It was a testimony to the fact that sensory experience can be greater than carnal pleasure.

As the flickering light borne out of mashaals (torch) hovered haywire from the grand fort that rose to kiss the azure sky, it made a surrealistic sight. The camel reached the massive façade and after stooping from it, they started walking on a different lane, with Kalingini's anklet chiming a soothing music and her embroidered ghagara (skirt) murmuring on the floor, as if humming to the tune. This marble-paved avenue was met at both sides with an exquisite garden populated by bougainvillea vines, bordered by small rivulets flaunting lotuses and lilacs spattered all around. The heavenly smell wafting to her nostrils nearly fainted her with ecstasy. The torches at every 5th metre brought warmth on this breezy cold night. She held Pushkin's hand but he held it back with a chameleonic mood. She looked at him with a puzzled ex-pression, but there wasn't even a twitch on his face.

Soon they reached a big hall that looked romantically beautiful. Small diyas lighted the striking interiors that were full of choicest artifacts. There lay a bed in peace, full of flowers, waiting to be ruptured. The elegantly printed blue silk curtains, hovering violently, gave a quick glance of the city beneath their feet. The artistically done earthen pots were the best she'd seen. A wheel cart hung on the wall brought a regal touch to the rustic setting. The rosemary smell of itr (perfume) impregnated the air with mysticism. It must be the abode of angels, she gasped.

And then the King, His Majesty, appeared. Chewing a betel leaf, he smiled at Kalingini, and hugged Pushkin in a very friendly way, patting his back. They held back, looked at each other, and again hugged with a broad smile on their face. His Majesty then served him and himself a glass of liqueur. They cheered each other and gulped it down in one go, and took a big, noisy sigh. Then Pushkin looked at Kalingini and said to His Majesty, "Huzoor, abhi nathini nahi utri iski, isleye aapke paas le aaya seedhe (His Majesty, she's still a virgin, reason why I brought her to you)."


P.S. - Though this story is a bigger concept in my mind, named Maya, i’m not sure when i would finish the other parts, as i’ve written just 2 parts of it. So posting just this part in isolation. If you still want to read the next part, you can log on to mayanagri.rediffblogs.com