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human emotion, relationship, spirituality, women

Quenched

 

The skies were roaring. So was a part of him too, deep down. He did not even remember her face distinctly. Seven years was a long time indeed. Seven long years, of having had to remain a recluse, bound by his own admonishing and nowhere to turn to but himself. So many times had he longed for her. In the midst of his ascetic life and his austere practice, he would find his mind wandering off to her, her soft fingers caressing his hair, the touch of her breasts as they would wrap around his hungry body, the sudden shiver up his spine as he would clasp her naked waist tight.

As he reached for the door, he could feel a tumultuous upsurge in his heart. It was the same madness that had forced him out and was now making him pine and sweat for that one sight of hers, of that same slave girl.

A slight creak and the door opened. It was the housemaid. She appeared dazed, not knowing as to who that scruffy man was that  was standing at the doorstep. ”Come tomorrow. There is nobody home. ” She tersely addressed him. That even before he could introduce himself.

”I am here to meet my family,” he softly replied. There was something mystical in the way he uttered those words. Fervent seeking for the ones left behind entwined with years of understanding and contemplation over what he was seeking. As if his voice created those ripples which unraveled these two desires and brought them together. The lady across stared at him for sometime, cast by the spell of his voice. ”Yes, i shall be back,” she somehow managed to speak as she hurtled towards the room inside. Standing there in his own house, all by himself, yet appearing to be an outsider, his eyes searched for memories within those walls. Memories of his childhood, of his marriage, his children. ”Jamshed must be a young lad now. And Rashid around ten years. What had they named his daughter?”

Lost in thought he did not catch sight of the woman who had entered the hall slowly. It was only when he felt a soft tickle on his toes did he realise that a woman was stooping before him, awaiting his blessings. That was her- his wife, the slave girl, the mother of his children. He touched her head that had been covered by the ends of her chunni as he watched her rise. And there she was- that same face, beautiful and flawless perched on the perfect body. Just that this time it looked even more attractive and compelling, more than what he had even imagined. ”I will prepare food for you, Gonshai. But let me get you water to drink first,” she broke the silence.

For a moment, he stood still, incapacitated by her words. The voice he had so longed to hear somehow seemed to have betrayed him. ”It was her husband before her, not Gonshai. Did she not realise it? Then where was it-‘that’ need-for him? Where had it disappeared?”

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About Dona

'You have to dream intentionally. Most people dream a dream when they are asleep. But to be a writer, you have to dream while you are awake'........Haruki Murakami

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