Dear reader, fear is what resides in her, she’s fearless, but can’t claim to be so. It’s a state of mind people say, yet she has got this usual notion of getting blinded by the kindness that she sees and witnesses around her, that she loses track of what kind of a person she ought to be in this world. She for once looks out of the window and glances at the blurred skyline above the tall buildings. For your knowledge, she stays on the sixth floor and the world seems not-so-tiny from there. The birds seem to call out for her as they fly from across the skies to the horizon where the sky meets the land. She for one reason likes to have people around her, and even when she’s all by herself, she talks aloud, like she’s narrating a folklore. People who know this part of her, find it astonishing. On the contrary, not many really know her. She’s the sort of open-book which is open, yet mysterious. Besides, it’s for you to find out whether she suits your judgments, isn’t it?
The first glimpse of the ray of sunlight fell on the unwashed utensils in her kitchen sink and travelled on to the pile of clothes that lay on the dining chair close by. The rays smuggled themselves across the window pane and fell on her eyes, finally waking her up. She woke up rubbing her eyes, leapt out of her bed, fiddled with the sheets in an attempt to fold them and walked out of her room at last, after settling for the mess. Looking at the unwashed utensils with annoyed and fussy eyes,she began walking in the direction of the sink, just when, the doorbell rang. Her feet tip-toed in a haste to answer the door; it was Geeta didi, her domestic help. She let her in and greeted her with a frown on her face. Scanning the house for the mess that was awaiting clearance, the domestic help stuttered, “Um, uh.. M..Mm..Meera didi, you should get someone.. to live with you. Doesn’t it get lonely?”
Meera launched herself with alarm, “Lonely? Who on earth said I feel lonely? Meera never feels lonely. If at all she thinks that way, she has herself as her own company.”
“Okay didi. I was just concerned about you. Should I make tea for you?”
“Yes, please. I’d like that very much. Also, please get it to my room itself.”
“Okay, didi. I’ll get it.” And in haste, she went to the kitchen to make tea for Meera. Meera went to her room and opened her cupboard. She ran her fingers on the surface of the first shelf below her pile of clothes to find the keys to the drawer in the cupboard. A few more attempts and she found them. She pushed the keys into the keyhole and opened the drawer; there were a few jhumkas, nose rings, three fountain pens, a peacock feather and a dried rose. She rolled her eyes from the rose to the jhumkas and picked up one of them. The oxidised jhumkas shone in the sunlight and she looked at them with glittery eyes. She then shut the drawer and the cupboard and sat on the chair by the window, lifted her diary lying on the table near-by and opened it to write:
I’ve been staring at the jhumkas you presented me with. I felt like my tears slid down on its dome and their shine wrote letters to you on my soul. Letters, I can never post, but will reach your soul when I’m with you next. I remember how much you loved dry roses; I always keep one with me. Your love in the dead rose never dies. In it, your words live like art does, in me. Di, I paint you crimson some days, saffron some others and on some days, just black and white. But what you will always be all colors in the rainbow and I’ll dance with you in my memories in the rain just like I promised.
She placed the pen down along-side her diary, closed it and tears rolled down her cheeks. Running her fingers on the pages of the diary, she thought, “Guess, it’ll rain today.” And it rained in the evening.
By night, it had stopped raining and Meera was on her bed, sitting, wanting to lie down and fall asleep. She had a long day to forward for tomorrow. After all, thoughts of meeting her friend with whom she grew up in the orphanage, were stirring in her mind. She dragged herself from her bedroom to the kitchen to cook something, but turned to face her fridge to find leftovers instead. And when she couldn’t find anything worth relishing, she resorted to making macaroni for herself. It was nearly half past ten, she was staring at her phone within intervals of watching T.V.; awaiting her friend’s message. About in a minute, she received a text which read:
“Hey Miyu! I’m so sorry for texting so late at night :(_
I’ll see you tomorrow at 10, okay?”
Meera typed a message which read: