A cigarette in her nicotine stained fingers, Amala stared at the empty street with her kohl smudged eyes. Beads of perspiration slid down her vermilion smeared forehead. She ran her free hand across her face, her fingers first slightly lingering on the line of her nose and then on the bump just above her lip. The sultry weather always messed up her skin - little bumps appeared overnight, threatening to mar her perfectly dusky complexion. Her mother had always fretted about her break outs in the summer, giving her bitter potions to drink and even more evil smelling concoctions to apply to her face before she went to bed. The thought of her mother, made Amala sigh - she missed her. She missed her smell - the smell of onions and stale spices that her mother gathered as she bristled around the kitchen shouting orders to the house maid in that soft, almost ringing voice of hers. She missed the rolls of warm fat around her mother's bosom that she would sink into whenever she felt lost or felt the darkness possess her. Amala threw away the now burnt out stub and lit another cigarette, forcing herself to focus on the more pressing matter - ma's memory will just have to wait for another time.
As she stood there looking at the puddles that the thunder storm earlier in the day had made, she contemplated ways to save herself from the raging depression that was threatening to possess her soon. Her eyes stung from the cigarette smoke, but she refused to close them, afraid that he would see him as soon as she did. She shuddered at the thought of him. She knew what was to come. Every second after this would be an attempt to relive that one night, several moons ago. She would sit on her bed, close her eyes and feel his hands on hers, smell his musky scent while he kissed the nape of her neck. She had always fidgeted when he did that. Her antsiness always amused him and he would find various ways to distract her, while he would nibble at her shoulder bones. Amala smiled at the thought of it - his childish ways of diverting her attention and her even more childish naivety every time he did that. Amala knew this reminiscing was unhealthy. That it would bring the onset of the darkness even more closer, but she couldn't help it. Couldn't help but smile at the thought of his boyish grin, the way his dark eyes would close to a slit when he would look at her, the curves of his slender back, the way he would call her Amma. She had laughed at him, the first time he had called her that. Amma at home meant mother, she told him amidst her full throated giggles. From that day on she would call him bachcha. Her child. It had started to pour again.
Amala pulled out another cigarette from the pack - her third pack in the day. She had started smoking heavily - "crazily suicidal" as Anna had put - from the time the phone calls had stopped coming. She glanced at her phone for the thousandth time, half expecting it to ring, even though she knew it wouldn't. She suddenly had the urge to drink wine. She had drank the last drop of alcohol in the apartment last night. What kind of a crazy behavior is this? She chided herself. She had to get out of this reverie, get back her life, those nights. She had tried to make sense of it, even withdraw herself from the deep angst she felt. But she could only half fathom what had happened, why the phone stopped ringing, why there were no more meetings, and why the only time they saw each other, the glances were cursory, the conversation almost perfunctory. Amala raised her hand, peering through the gaps that her fingers made. Was this the hand he had held quietly during that cab drive?
As she stood there looking at the puddles that the thunder storm earlier in the day had made, she contemplated ways to save herself from the raging depression that was threatening to possess her soon. Her eyes stung from the cigarette smoke, but she refused to close them, afraid that he would see him as soon as she did. She shuddered at the thought of him. She knew what was to come. Every second after this would be an attempt to relive that one night, several moons ago. She would sit on her bed, close her eyes and feel his hands on hers, smell his musky scent while he kissed the nape of her neck. She had always fidgeted when he did that. Her antsiness always amused him and he would find various ways to distract her, while he would nibble at her shoulder bones. Amala smiled at the thought of it - his childish ways of diverting her attention and her even more childish naivety every time he did that. Amala knew this reminiscing was unhealthy. That it would bring the onset of the darkness even more closer, but she couldn't help it. Couldn't help but smile at the thought of his boyish grin, the way his dark eyes would close to a slit when he would look at her, the curves of his slender back, the way he would call her Amma. She had laughed at him, the first time he had called her that. Amma at home meant mother, she told him amidst her full throated giggles. From that day on she would call him bachcha. Her child. It had started to pour again.
Amala pulled out another cigarette from the pack - her third pack in the day. She had started smoking heavily - "crazily suicidal" as Anna had put - from the time the phone calls had stopped coming. She glanced at her phone for the thousandth time, half expecting it to ring, even though she knew it wouldn't. She suddenly had the urge to drink wine. She had drank the last drop of alcohol in the apartment last night. What kind of a crazy behavior is this? She chided herself. She had to get out of this reverie, get back her life, those nights. She had tried to make sense of it, even withdraw herself from the deep angst she felt. But she could only half fathom what had happened, why the phone stopped ringing, why there were no more meetings, and why the only time they saw each other, the glances were cursory, the conversation almost perfunctory. Amala raised her hand, peering through the gaps that her fingers made. Was this the hand he had held quietly during that cab drive?
The darkness was closer. She could feel it. She tried to shake it off, knowing fully well that until it passed away, she would not be able to smile, to laugh, to sing or to think about him. She thought about the last time they had been alone together. How she had cried, broken down, yelled at him, screamed at herself inside her head to make the hurting stop. She had been ashamed of it ever since. She had tried to make sense of what she did. She had never done that, never reacted so. If anything, she had always been an epitome of calmness, always amused at the world and at people. She remembered that day vividly. The day, that Anne called the day of the great breakup. After a month of a furtively torrid romance with the history professor, Amala had decided to call it off. "He is a careless alcoholic," she had told Anne, fully knowing that she had never intended to let the affair go beyond a month. The professor hadn't taken it lightly, he had first plead, cried and begged. He cried some more. Amala sat on the ottoman in his office - calm with a look on her face that anyone else might have at the Opera. Seeing that his outburst had done more to entertain her than to move her, the professor had then in a rage thrown a book at her. It missed her. He never was a good throw. She picked it up from the floor and had calmly walked out from the office, leaving the professor distraught and broken. As she walked through the campus, she had laughed, not stopping until she got home.
The tables had certainly turned. It was she who had plead, begged for him to stay the night. He was unmoved - stoically standing at the doorway, while she had waffled and sniveled. Amala flinched at the thought of that night. It had embarrassed her ever since. She who had been the cold hearted bitch had finally found her nemesis. She couldn't imagine the amusement of the countless people if they heard about it. He had walked away, leaving her empty, cold and humiliated and with the realization that she had not said all that she had wanted to. She had not told him that she wanted nothing from him, except that night and a memory. That she wanted to ease his pain, stop his hurting. That she had long ago resigned to the fact that she could never be a part of his life. Why then had he loved her? Told her that she had become a part of his life? What was he running from?
She had stayed up the whole night. Waiting. Hoping that he'd come back. He did not. She hadn't slept ever since nor eaten well. It was as if by punishing herself, she wanted to hurt him. Anne had laughed at her, called her a lovelorn fool. Forced her to eat. Even suggested a visit to a shrink. Amala had laughed her off and then closed herself in her apartment for a week, not taking any phone calls, leaving only to buy cigarettes.
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