He came in without knocking.

The harsh afternoon sun was reflected in his eyes. The shade of ageless Mara trees, cool and dominant, was dancing between his lithe fingers. There was only a moment, a moment of hesitation, when he saw her sitting on the ground of the mud hut, trying to put the baby to sleep. There was always that moment, where uncertainty chewed at its claws, re-thought, re-designed and re-arranged desire.

Uncertainty always lost that battle.

He was stunning, even at a time when everything was supposed to look jaded. Fearless and independent. She was fearful, dependant and faltering; postponing her want and finally giving way. But always, imagining an inevitable knock on the wooden door. Inevitable discovery. Total revelation.

Whispering, of trees to one another.

The river, to the smooth sand.

Smooth sand, to the craggy rocks.  

The clothes-line danced provocatively to a rhythm of the wayward breeze. A red sari flapped this way and that, in vain attempt to hold on to the blue nylon rope. A white bed sheet was thrown off the line and was tainted, in a tangle with the red-brown earth.

But all things were still. All things, in place.  Or maybe hideously out of place, unnoticed by untrained human eyes. Somehow, everything seemed arranged. Premeditated. By the hands of careless gods, or the eyes of unknown strangers.

…………………

He always came in without knocking.

She knew he would come. Was expecting him, like a frangipani waiting for the rain. Deep-seated mistakes were indulged in; timeless blunders made by man recurring on a stage of maddening illusion. It was unfaithfulness of an otherwise ordinary act.

The mud walls absorbed her guilt and radiated it to the sun-struck verandah. It was evaporated; the guilt. It got blown away by the breeze, only to return at night, when she cooked, fed the baby or blew off the oil lamp.

Faithful everyday activities, of an otherwise unfaithful woman.

Only the merciless sun knew her secret. The unpredictable monsoons, they discerned nothing. Her existence between the two seasons, struggle of co-existence, and pain of non-existence were endowment of being born woman. It was recklessness of nature, thoughtlessness of the creator.

………….

He came in without knocking.

The trees were already whispering.

The clothes-line danced provocatively to a rhythm of the wayward breeze. A yellow sari flapped this way and that, finally gaining grip on the blue nylon rope. The white bed sheet was washed. It lay on the mud hut ground, creaseless.

All things were still. In place.

She was in place.