Photo Essay | Mrs S with Raw Mango
Mrs. S finds a sense of belonging in mundane experiences with her other half. There is a melancholy tone to this visual essay that explores unsaid love, the subtle romance of the old days, a distant closeness, a sense of familiarity and belonging. It has the sound of emptiness in it and sweetness of a ripened fruit at the same time, just like a slumber on a winter afternoon.
Hasratein aur Haq
Every morning, through the folds of the fluttering curtains, a certain slant of golden sunlight slowly caresses her face with its soft warmth. Shedding the slumber-laden sheets, she rises to move through every ritual of her morning routine. When the vinyl records turn and the music sweeps through the bedroom, her husband wakes.
There is something about old songs on winter mornings.
(audio: Harano Sur: Tume Je Amar)
Perhaps he will say, “I was dreaming about you”.
When beams of sunshine slips through the rusty lattices, she runs her fingers through his hair. The sunlight touches her alta-hued feet, the tiny silver trinket on her ankle thread twinkles.
Perhaps he will say ‘Goodbye’ before leaving, today. She aches for his closeness, but the day takes different roads and the routine tears them apart.
.
She looks at him as he gets ready. She holds his shirt as she does in a crowd, longing to hold him close, afraid of the emptiness around her when he leaves.
She sips her tea and he gulps it down from his cup; skimming through the newspaper, finishing his breakfast.
She is picking up the plates from the table when he leaves in a hurry.
Perhaps he will say, “Let’s spend the whole day together. I will read love poetry and you can lay your head on my shoulder”.
Perhaps he will say, “Let’s hum a sweet melody together. Lead me to find a faraway place and we can travel on a cosy caravan together”.
Perhaps, we will say, “Let’s meet down by the river. We can watch the silent spring and you can lay your head on my lap”.
.
The sarees hang in the sun and the symmetrical shadows rise and fall with the wind. She languorously pulls them down and puts them up, neatly folded inside the almirah. Her hands move from her things to his. She traces the contours of his shirts. Finally, the mirror is her only companion; her reflection, her friend. She runs her comb and twists and turns the coiling ropes of her hair.
She flips through the dog-eared pages of her copy of Sonar Kella. After rereading it a hundred times she had memorized every scene. The novel’s mystery had always transported her to the dry west where the sun bore down the back mercilessly.
The cacophony in the kitchen startles her, but her hands deftly go through the motion. She cooks rice, dices mangoes, prepares fish curry in mustard sauce. Under the kitchen roof, there is a strong aroma of spices and sweet ripeness of fruits. She turns off the stove and goes out to the terrace. She leans from the parapet, hoping to see him return.
Tending to her flowers, lighting incense to her gods, and watering her greens.
Faslaein aur Fikar
She sits by a window and writes. Her journal — where her heart flows through her pen — here she finds a solitary refuge. Her face resting on her hand, she dallies the drowsy afternoon slumber.
“There is fiction in the space between you and me.
All its characters imaginary.
Every night a bad dream breaks my sleep
I wait by the window wondering why
The birds don’t sing here at night.
I watch the moon languishes and welts
Only to rise again on dark nights.
Between the home and the world,
Lies a distant closeness of love in the ordinary.
If I had been a bit of a talker,
Would you have stayed by me forever?
If I am lost and can’t find my way back,
Will you find me or will it tear us apart?”
.
Sometimes she writes of the grinding tedium and her acute isolation, of her desire to be desired. Of needing a relationship with tension, with mystery.
Sometimes she writes about secret rendezvous and billet-doux.
Sometimes, she writes of her sense of trust forged with familiarity and belonging. Of returning to each other every day. Of feeling complete. Of sharing a life.
.
The bell rings and brings her back from her reveries. She runs to the door with a hopeful heart. Dusk gathers and the birds are calling.
Perhaps he will say “I missed you,” when he returns.