A work of fiction. 

Unsung melodies have a different esssence. The mammoth of emotions, hanging in the air because there is a mystery that engulfs it. You can hear a soft murmur, a humming of a song, you know but you cannot remember.. Even while walking down the aisle, of those broken houses or the old architecture, sliding your fingers through the red marble, you can hear those words, those kind whispers if you listen carefully. Of those who gave their lives, unnamed, unrecognised, sweating and tirelessly, giving in their life’s activity.
If you pay attention closer, you can hear the rhythm of the ghunghroos, of the women who danced around, worshipping the gods, coloring in love for the goddess, in her fury and her love. She sings, the words coming from her heart, from her soul to his, to her lover. The lover  who hides in one corner, their love is a deviance. Her heart of copper is with his golden chest. He is a forbidden fruit and she held it in her eyes each day.

Walk ahead the aisle, to the redsandstone, the remnants of the empire. In shackles is the learned man, whose knowledge could not free him of his despair. The unruly, those tangled frizzy hair, falling above his eyes. He stares deeply, observing each movement. Words fail to comprehend the blasphemy. He is religious, praying to his God five times a day, but the moment she croons her neck to his side his words change to whispers, his prayers turn mundane. Her movements sway, just like his mane in the wind. The only fury being, she worships the melody of the flute, the beauty of the peacock feather. In the big verandah, she walks, royally, holding the folds of her skirt, her beauty grim. Her blue blood surpassed his empathy. Her blue god surpassed his devotion.

Her blue eyes surpassed his fidelity.

Her unknowing his nemesis.

Few more leaps away. The merchantess leers while she sells her spices. The salt slips through her frail fingers on to the wounds of her heart. Her broken soul crushed by her son. Her son ran away to the bigger city, in search of gold and wine. He sells fragrances to the thieves, the businessmen and the merchants. And his success only stings the trader. She gave her life to his formation, to make him a man. But he didn’t deserve her love, her solace or her sacrifice..

Treading, dancing, paw away the room. Run from one end to the other. There you see, a poet, scratching his thoughts hurriedly. He competes with his contemporary, the woman of his heart. He sees her scribble, her heart out in the cursive font. His mood enlightens and his face brightens while she chews her thoughts. He sees her at ease, her love flows in her shayari. He is amazed how she finds the accurate words, the symbols that infuse her passion. There was a fire in her, the tension that ebbed away. She feels his loving gaze on her, observing her every manoeuvre. Her fingers tingle and her eyes sparkle, the love resides even throughout the ages.

There is a calm, right beneath the surface. The jems gleam in glory. The blood that flowed, washed away, seeds a new flower so beautiful. The bee stings, drinks it’s necter, just like the two lovers engulfed in each other’s arms.

And you walk to the end, you see the royal man and woman. They look at each other, covertly. One behind the studded curtain and the other in front of the public. There love is no secret, but their glances sly. They romance each other, stripping their soul. And yet, no one sees them.. There is no soul who hears these stories, just the walls that witness them. For years and centuries they stay, waiting to be heard.


One thought on “A work of fiction. 

  1. One of the most beautiful words I’ve read in a long time. Like a meandering river, the words flow through a mind that has been parched for a long time. Fertile imagination. Giving birth to blooms. Keep writing 🙂 you are gifted ❤

    Liked by 1 person

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