Diwali had come and gone. So did the loud cracker noise. But the smoke filled air hung low. Winter lurked somewhere inside dew drenched grass and in the chill light of the early morning sun.
Sarla stood looking out of the window. Pink and yellow splashes of melted wax stuck to the window sill. Sadly she remembered that brightly lit night. The stars had descended inside terracotta lamps..
Rameshwar's wife Sadhana had stayed back to celebrate Diwali.
She wore a green Kanjeeverum saree with a pink zari border. A gold necklace and bangles adorned her .
Her thick long plait was knitted in orange and white chameli flowers.
Rameshwar looked like a prince in a white and gold mundu. On his dark bare torso hung a cream silk stole.
His wide forehead marked in white proclaimed his devotion to Vishnu the Preserver of the Universe.
He looked distant and unattainable.
Sarla wished she hadn't come. Sadhnaji had insisted. She had hurriedly lit the pink and yellow candles , served her mother an unusually early dinner and left.
She wanted so much to be with Rameshwar on this brightly lit auspicious night.
He said he loved her. In the lamp-lit secrecy of their hearts they would be together.
His wife was a formality of a duty bound son.
Today Sadhna ji had transformed from a frumpy housewife to an apsara.
Rameshwar's dark eyes stayed riveted on her glowing face. He seemed oblivious to Sarla's presence.
The traditional prayers began. Rameshwar and Sadhna stood together as husband and wife to propitiate the goddess of wealth.
Rameshwar looked deeply into the lotus eyes of Goddess Sadhna.
Such treasures lay buried in his own yard and he was looking elsewhere. They say it is always dark under a lamp.
In the tall brass lamps his growing desire burned a brittle light. An insane desire to make love to her while the priest chanted the mantras overwhelmed him.
Her voluptuous body wrapped in yards of traditional silk caught him in a web.
From under the shadows of the oil dripping earthen lamps Sarla saw the light die out inside of her. Her love crazed eyes saw Rameshwar's palpable passion for his wife.
Her thin bony frame in a tussar saree shivered with revulsion. Waves of nausea rose and fell. She desperately clutched her stomach. Pulling her saree pallav tightly around her she staggered into the crackling night.
The phone did not ring. She had left abruptly. Nobody cared.
The frozen melted wax clung for dear life to the precipice of the window sill. Its fire trapped inside its cold coagulated core.
There had been other Deepawali nights. Nights when it was she who had been set on fire. She who had crackled and simmered.
She who had burned a burnished bright. Rameshwar's eyes had then looked
like two dark earthen lamps. The flames swaying from side to side like hooded cobra heads.
She remembered Rameshwar”s cries had drowned the sound of exploding crackers.
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Deepavali…Indian festival of lights
Kanjeevarum …A kind of Indian sil
Tussar…undyed Indian silk .
Pallav..the scarf end of a saree
Mundu..Wrap around white ceremonial cloth worn by men in South India
Chameli ..fragrant flowers.
Zari…woven silver and gold thread.
Ji..an honorific suffix
Roopali Sircar Gaur, Ph.D. is a poet, writer, academic and social justice activist. She taught English and Creative Writing at Delhi University. She has featured in peer-reviewed journals, and edited anthologies.Her poetry is archived in the Stanford University Pandemic digital archives. Co founder of Saraswati Ezine for Literature and Arts and Poetry Editor for AWS Ezine, a columnist for E Journal Different Truths. She is consulting editor for Different Truths and Director of The Backyard Book Club.
She lives in Meerut, India with her Veteran military spouse and three rescued dogs.
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