Part 15

Bolts of silk and brocade, young women,
ornate silver jhumkas flashing as they
shook their heads, hennaed hands and
curly long hair, one holding up a swathe of
peacocks spun in gold and twilight blue to
her breast, another draping fiery orange,
the colour of a star in heat, around a slender
waist, the beginning of a giggle, hugging,
so much touching, an older woman, a

mother, an aunt, clutching a sequinned
purse, the air thick with chemicals and
anticipation, bangles jangling as dreams
awaken in sensuous mulberry pink. Looking
through a shop window into that many-hued
ache, I straightened the years that had fallen
on their sides like plastic dominoes. It might
have been nice, like that, the adults indulgent,
youth, somewhat innocent, somewhat lewd,

thrusting hips and limbs against softness,
life’s probability ratios worked out by the
length of a zipper, the transparency of fabric
and a familiar call in a stranger’s eyes. It could
have been like that. A maroon-brown saree
with zari borders for a willing bride. The motif
of celebration. Of auspicious starts. It should
have been like that. They say the longest night
is woven in bitter yarn: black warp, black weft.