The bangles in the box have been unused for a while. They sit there in all their glitter and glory. They miss the time gone by. The time when she loved them dearly, gazed at them, admired them. The times when she would come from the bath, her waist length hair covering her bare back like a curtain. She would sit in front of the mirror, the soft orange lights in the room making her looking a hundred times prettier. She would dot her glowing forehead with just a hint of red. She would dust the parting in her hair with vermillion. The tips of her fingers were always a faint red, a testimony to this everyday ritual.
The bangles were kept in a wooden box. The insides of the box smelled of polish and good times. Now they had not much to do but to sit there demurely; as the events of the past haunted them as much as they haunted her.
The call came in late one night. She sat on the bed and cried for hours. She’d had taken one look at the wooden box and thrown it to the floor. She was angry. Why did fate pick her? She was meant to grow old with her husband. She was meant to have him hold her slim waist; have him whisper how pretty she was. She sat in front of the mirror – her glowing cheeks were now a flaming red. She tore at her hairline, in an attempt to wipe of the vermillion. She rubbed it off, her hair now an angry mess. The vermillion had served its time. Now, it didn’t make her look pretty. It didn’t make her feel secure. It was just a rude reminder of her loss. She rubbed at her forehead until the fleshy part of her palm grew red. The orange light gave it the red an eerie edge.
The bangles were picked up by a concerned friend and put back in the wooden box. The box was kept away out of sight; lest they bring back memories of the tragic time
A few days back she opened the wooden box. She had a look of pain and longing. The pale blue bangles had been her favourite. She touched them tenderly, like they would break with her mere touch. Then suddenly she shut the lid with a force that caused a couple of bangles to crack. They never did complain though. They had heard her cry into the nights. Her pain was deeper than their longing to adorn her hands again. They continued to sit in there, in the dark. They understood. They understood that they reminded her of that night.
The bangles were kept in a wooden box. The insides of the box smelled of polish and good times. Now they had not much to do but to sit there demurely; as the events of the past haunted them as much as they haunted her.
The call came in late one night. She sat on the bed and cried for hours. She’d had taken one look at the wooden box and thrown it to the floor. She was angry. Why did fate pick her? She was meant to grow old with her husband. She was meant to have him hold her slim waist; have him whisper how pretty she was. She sat in front of the mirror – her glowing cheeks were now a flaming red. She tore at her hairline, in an attempt to wipe of the vermillion. She rubbed it off, her hair now an angry mess. The vermillion had served its time. Now, it didn’t make her look pretty. It didn’t make her feel secure. It was just a rude reminder of her loss. She rubbed at her forehead until the fleshy part of her palm grew red. The orange light gave it the red an eerie edge.
The bangles were picked up by a concerned friend and put back in the wooden box. The box was kept away out of sight; lest they bring back memories of the tragic time
A few days back she opened the wooden box. She had a look of pain and longing. The pale blue bangles had been her favourite. She touched them tenderly, like they would break with her mere touch. Then suddenly she shut the lid with a force that caused a couple of bangles to crack. They never did complain though. They had heard her cry into the nights. Her pain was deeper than their longing to adorn her hands again. They continued to sit in there, in the dark. They understood. They understood that they reminded her of that night.
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