message in a bottle (02.2003 - 09.2008)

She knew it was morning but did not want to acknowledge it; she wanted to lie still and keep her eyes closed, unaware of all that surrounded her. But she could not escape his presence. She could feel him on the other side of the bed even though she ensured her body did not touch his. The way the mattress dipped under the pressure of his body, his rhythmic breathing – everything way too familiar. She tried to close her mind to all of this but gave up after a few moments. She rolled out of the bed, avoided glancing at the handsome sleeping figure that could make her heart skip a beat even after six years of marriage.

Outside was brilliant. She pulled her coat closer and feeling snug, she started walking towards the river. She stepped on dry leaves on purpose. The crackling sound of dry leaves was almost on top her feel-good list, just after the smell of soil after it rained. She wondered if she could get a cup of coffee somewhere here but then almost laughed at her own thought. She glanced up at the trees surrounding the path. Leaves had given way to pink flowers. She could see the blue sky through the pinkness. She took a deep breath and inhaled the freshness that surrounded her. It was amazing how none of these things got noticed last night. Maybe last night was just meant for noticing the ugly things. It must have been that kind of evening.

 
“Madam, you be falling ill,” said a little voice. She looked up and saw a surprised face of a little boy with big eyes staring at her feet. They were almost blue. She could have been sitting here for hours for all she knew. She had slipped off her shoes and dipped her feet in the chilly water of the river. She had wanted to feel numb and at that time, it had seemed like a good idea. The boy was still standing there; a cowbell in one hand and a dried branch in the other. He was wearing a red-colored checked jacket and a funny green cap. She pulled her feet out of the water, just for his sake. “Wipe ‘em,” he said and began to walk away.

 
“One mocha, please,” she tried to smile at the waitress but was not sure if she managed to curl her lips upwards. She sat alone at a roadside café, on a little white table meant for two. It was way past noon and she knew she should order some food with the coffee but had a feeling that eating anything would make her sick. She checked her bag for the passport and then counted the cash in her wallet. It would not be enough to buy a ticket back home. The coffee arrived and as she moved her hand to pick up the cup she caught the sight of the sun shining on the big solitaire on her ring finger. This time she truly smiled. She would sell the rock to buy her tickets back to India. Serves the adulterous bastard right!

It was gorgeous. The gold strings interwoven with the peach silken threads; there were patterns in green on one side and heavy gold border at the bottom. One of the most magnificent sari she had ever seen. “It is Kanjivaram,” she was told. Her eyes gleamed with joy mixed with astonishment as she ran her fingers softly over the silk. “It is beautiful!” she whispered, with extra emphasis on beauty. “You can wear it for today’s function if you like.” She looked up surprise apparent on her face. “Are you sure?” she stammered, “It must be very expensive.” She could see the owners face swell with pride, “Of course, it is. Aishwarya Rai wore a similar thing on her wedding. What do you think!”

She draped the borrowed sari that evening after she had donned her best jewelry. It was not easy. Given her limited experience with wearing this particular attire, and the extra heavy material of this specific sari, she took almost twenty minutes to get it on. It was kind of shabbily draped when she stepped out of the house and into the car. But by the time she stepped out of the car and into the function, the shabbiness was replaced by utter chaos. The pallu length had multiplied during the 15 minute car journey. The skirts of the sari had come lose, and as she balanced herself on her high heels, which were mandatory given the length of the sari, she had to be careful at every step else she would trip and fall.

There were people everywhere - urging her to taste some chaat or share some ice-cream. Tempted to try the delicious snacks, she tucked her sari up, and walked to the stalls. She got herself a plate full of snack with yogurt and sauce, and had just dug in with gusto when she felt a soft tap on her shoulder. She turned around to see this uncle from Saharn Pur; graying and wrinkled – he could be anywhere between 80 to 95 years of age. Hunched over the walking stick, he stood there, smiling at her. She liked him, yes. She bent over to touch his feet as a sign of respect and just then his little granddaughter came running. She wanted a bite of the snack too and tugged at the golden-peach Kanjivaram pallu.

Momentarily, the world came to a standstill. Then, she felt a slight pull, heard a faint sound that reminded her of a tearing cloth, saw the unfurling of the magnificent golden silk. Turned to stone, she stood there. Standing amidst a frolicking crowd, with strains of a popular Hindi film song in the background, she had only one thought in her mind, “Would the owner forgive for ruining the sari just like the one Aishwarya Rai wore on her wedding?”

Every morning she woke to the noise and to the smell of cooking. She heard the sound of knife against the stone shelf in the kitchen; a rhythmic chop chop. The smell of turmeric filled the tiny apartment as she walked out of the bathroom, her hair still wet. Metal clinked as she made her way out of the apartment, with hot steel tiffin stuffed in her handbag.

The bus was crowded and she stood stuck between two sweating passengers. Not that the stench could overpower the detested smell of food.

At work, she put her tiffin in the hot case, where it sat next to several others of its kind. Yellow oil dripping out of it. However hard she tried, some yellow oil always found its way out of the tiffin. Strong smell of onions engulfed the pantry. Day after day. Overtime, the curtains, the furniture, everything acquired the smell.

Her only escape was in the shower. Where she could smell the pure smell of water…until she walked out to smell the splintering mustard seeds again.

SUBMUNITIONS: stories inside 100 200 words, inspired by Devil's own Warren Ellis.