Beginnings
"At once she was the stillness and the word,
A continent of self-diffusing peace,
An ocean of untrembling virgin fire:
The strength, the silence of the gods were hers" ~Ghosh (Savitri)
She sat in the waiting room.
There was no clock there. Maybe it wasn’t a bad thing. She couldn’t make up her mind on the matter though.
She glanced down and noticed the colour of her sari; crisp, starched and neatly pleated. Her son had told her that she looked stunning in it. She realised that he was getting better at flattery. Flattery would serve him well. Women liked being flattered. She liked it. She wore that sari quite often, and at special occasions. Her son would be fine.
It was her daughter she was worried about. It was all her fault. She had never let go of the little one. The daughter was older than the boy but she held her closer, confided in her and brought her up as a friend. The little one was quite awkward and shy. They both had the most beautiful smiles; ones that reached their eyes. She was charming and graceful in her age.
It was a pity her husband had stopped saying sweet nothings. She thought they were amusing. She also thought they were a bit unimaginative, perhaps lines memorised from an obscure romantic novel. He was never a man of words though. He was lazy. He was fiercely independent. He would miss her. Sadly, no one else would know of his pain. He would smile bravely.
It had been a couple of months now. No one noticed that she had been eating brown rice and vegetables everyday. No one noticed her. She was a typical Indian housewife, selfless and strong.
Everyone expressed mild surprise when she decided to go to an Ashram for fourteen days. Her son laughed and wished her luck. Her husband smiled and wished her luck. Her daughter said she would miss her but wished her luck. Goodbyes are always painful.
She sat in the waiting room, and wondered if it would be a dark man with a pet bull, a hooded man with a sickle or a nice friendly man called Peter.
A continent of self-diffusing peace,
An ocean of untrembling virgin fire:
The strength, the silence of the gods were hers" ~Ghosh (Savitri)
She sat in the waiting room.
There was no clock there. Maybe it wasn’t a bad thing. She couldn’t make up her mind on the matter though.
She glanced down and noticed the colour of her sari; crisp, starched and neatly pleated. Her son had told her that she looked stunning in it. She realised that he was getting better at flattery. Flattery would serve him well. Women liked being flattered. She liked it. She wore that sari quite often, and at special occasions. Her son would be fine.
It was her daughter she was worried about. It was all her fault. She had never let go of the little one. The daughter was older than the boy but she held her closer, confided in her and brought her up as a friend. The little one was quite awkward and shy. They both had the most beautiful smiles; ones that reached their eyes. She was charming and graceful in her age.
It was a pity her husband had stopped saying sweet nothings. She thought they were amusing. She also thought they were a bit unimaginative, perhaps lines memorised from an obscure romantic novel. He was never a man of words though. He was lazy. He was fiercely independent. He would miss her. Sadly, no one else would know of his pain. He would smile bravely.
It had been a couple of months now. No one noticed that she had been eating brown rice and vegetables everyday. No one noticed her. She was a typical Indian housewife, selfless and strong.
Everyone expressed mild surprise when she decided to go to an Ashram for fourteen days. Her son laughed and wished her luck. Her husband smiled and wished her luck. Her daughter said she would miss her but wished her luck. Goodbyes are always painful.
She sat in the waiting room, and wondered if it would be a dark man with a pet bull, a hooded man with a sickle or a nice friendly man called Peter.
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