June 25, 2010

Short Story 9

The two of them walked in the mystery of the twilight, holding a promise in their handclasp. Wordlessly, they seemed to know where one's footfall was going to be. They seemed synchronized, as if they were both a part of some magic spell that bound them together. Perhaps, there was a magic spell!

She stole a look at him. With blatant disregard for societal norms, she was one to express what she felt. Yet, how much can a person look at another and not creep them out with the hunger of one more vision?! So after a while, she had to satisfy herself with these stolen sidelong glances, noticing the bridge of his nose once, looking at that sparkle in his eyes or seeing how his mouth crinkled up when he smiled.

He always noticed those sidelong glances, and turned around to see her eyes sprinting across his face. He loved it that she did this, as it gave him one more reason to look at her. See the calmness and excitement taking alternate hold of her features. That quest in her eyes, the steady nature of her gaze and the loyalty of her smile. Her face was a promise he wanted to hold.

It had been some days since they went on these trysts. Every evening, he would come home, and she would accompany him. They would walk, sometimes wordlessly, other times, throwing in a word or two. Mostly, words seemed unwanted. They spoke through some unworded language that only the two of them understood. A bat of an eyelid, a fleck of a hand, a suppressed smile and one knew what the other was saying.

Today had been the day when they had finally confessed what one meant to the other. It is not like they gave it a tag or began building airy castles of marbleburst and glass. It was yet again a kind of acknowledgment- now in words- that life was meaningful in certain ways because they had found in one another something undefinable yet deep. It was not as if an unbreakable seal had been formed, but more like a hope of something beautiful had fluttered for the first time.

They had suddenly found beauty in life together, and they wanted to see where this journey would lead. There were no conclusions, it wasn't even a beginning. It was just an understanding, and probably far more beautiful than any of those verbose promises and grand declarations that the world had seen.

June 09, 2010

Short story 8

Somewhere, by the sea, Krishna laments, playing his flute. I can hear its faint notes. For all the games he has played- with minds, hearts, lives... he laments.

"I too am a mere toy of fate," his song claims. A plaintive note arises. A struggling breath, choked with tears he dare not shed in front of those who worship him, finds its way through bamboo shoot and musical voids and begs for forgiveness!

The sky. The sea. The earth. Early stars standing testimony for the cosmos. And the dying embers of a smouldering sun lining the horizon. He prays to the Panchabhootams through his music, pleading to be relieved from his bounden duty of playing his crafty game- turning kin against kin, twirling destiny between his thumbs.

The faint sounds still visit on rainy days like this one... Between the patter of the drops, I almost hear Krishna's sobs. In the breeze, I still can hear the lull of his flute and when the raindrop touches me, I feel a love so pure, so gentle and so trusting. Who else, but Krishna could touch that way?
© Dryad's Peak
Maira Gall