Soul mates

He sat astride her and held her face prisoner between his palms. Tears welled in her eyes. Gently, he placed his finger beneath her eyes all alert to catch the unshed tear. With great effort she lifted her lashes and looked at him. His gaze seared her being, branded her soul.  He was the reason for her being. The love of her life and the purpose of her existence. Yet, how she wished, he wasn’t sitting so close to her oozing his characteristic electricity that gave her goosebumps! She and he, he and she and the rest of the world could retire to hell in harmony. They didn’t give a damn. But, right now, she was upset. Extremely. He had made her livid. No, she was hurt. Terribly.

Once again he had trespassed. It was difficult for her to bear. Hot tears streamed down her cheek. He squeezed her palm. He wanted her to trust him once again. If only she could do so!

Her pain tore his heart. With exquisite tenderness, he stroked her cheek with a feather. Her eyes smiled. It offered him some solace. Mesmerised she drank in his sculpted face, his lop sided grin, the strong jaw line and the perfect pearlies that gleamed from within. Her fingers were eager to bury themselves in his midnight dark curls. Age seemed to have thrown its hands up in defeat before him. It was but natural.  She tore her gaze away from his. However, the pair of blue emeralds kept stalking her. She had to leave. Her bones went jelly. Shamelessly, she kept sitting there. At least she had turned around, to salvage her shreds of pride. 

‘Please trust me,’ he implored. For the sake of time we have spent together. Sitting before her on his knees ignorant of the folks around once again he excelled in theatrics.

At least she should have known it. By now.

This is not the first time. The words never escaped the fringes of her mouth. Like her thoughts they stewed inside.

Her heart leapt at his attention. She wanted to concede to his request. But…the three-letter-word that jiggled in between.

‘Haven’t we been lovers since the beginning of time?’ He was lucid.

She enjoyed his attention. He was fragile. He lived in the moment. She had learned it by heart. Yet, her heart refused to believe.

I must leave. She emphasized on the last word.

 

Spare Thoughts

Yes, it was me. Only me, no one else, but she didn't look like me. She felt sad, morose, frailer than me, but her decision was strong. Not unlike her. She seemed to be lying on her death bed, chanting the name of the saviour. The name that had been her sole companion for the last fifty years: a life of renunciation revolved around her, when the venerable guru accepted her in his fold. A life of servitude, devotion was the only life that she knew of.

But today on her death bed, she wasn't able to chant the name of her saviour. She felt cheated. A life had been wasted. She didn't experience the joys of life: the warmth of a man's embrace, the passion of a kiss, the ecstasy of lovemaking, the melting of heart on the holding of a newborn.  

All she willed at the last minute was the desire to savour the kebabs that she never had. If there was a God, who would meet her for her service of fifty years, she would ask, why a blissful life can't equate His worship? Why there is a need to renounce? And for her, she had never experienced joys. 

Married off at ten and a widow at twelve, she joined the sect of mendicants when they visited her village. At least she would get two square meals. For her God lied in the grain that satisfied her hunger.

But today on her death bed, she felt that the life's joys were denied to her. If there was a rebirth she would like to experience the simple joys of life: a blissful matrimony and motherhood.