By The Window

                                                                                                                  

          The  afternoon sun filtered through  the neem tree  that grew by the window and sidled into her room. Little particles floated in the beam tossing about in the warm space. I often saw her sitting on the chair in front of the  brand new mirror that was pushed against the wall next to the window. The dancing leaves flitted across her face.  I caught her many a times looking forlornly out of the  window. Despair seeking a sliver of hope. Everyday reflected the same story. No changes. Except maybe, the intensity. There were days when she looked drained out. Spent with pain. I watched her helplessly  from the other side.  And then again there were days, when I thought she would end it all one day. Release herself from the drudgery.

          There were days also when she did not come by the window. And when she did after the absence, it might as well have been the dark moonless, starless night. But it was always at this time that she came. Late in the afternoon, when the rest of the house retired for a siesta. This was her only time. It was funny how one lay claim to something as elusive as time. Milch time, dung cake time, cooking time, cleaning time, vomit cleaning time, in-laws time, beating time, untouchable time, lying silently time while the job was being done... savagely...

          Every day was the same. Only the earth continued to move as people went about their daily lives. Nights changed to days and back to nights in a never ending cycle. Relentless summers changed to the mild autumn, cool winters and the colourful boisterous spring. And one day,  she sat in her place by the window, in the tell- tale white sari with a blank ebony forehead. Like a blank slate. The despair had given way to a calm. A calm that descends when the storm has passed. And this was where I saw the changes that take place in a life. Little printed floral patterns took up the white canvas of her sari. The patterns became bolder with passing days. Colours crept in to fill up the gaps within the patterns. A hint of a smile now lurked around her lips. The dark eyes shone with a zeal.

          One morning she sat on her chair, looking out at the chirping birds and rustling leaves. Suddenly a voice called out," Arrey! You are not late? The school bell will ring in five minutes! "
"Coming, Maji!" she jolted out of her reverie casting one last glance at the mirror before grabbing her bag. I smiled  at the happy stranger that beamed back.




This post is a part of Write Over the Weekend, an initiative for Indian Bloggers by BlogAdda.