dark

Dark



Smothered under the dense blanket of monsoon clouds, the night sleeps. The earth, teeming with secret life, sweats in fragrant streams of vapor. Crickets chirp. Wind blows in short, quick bursts, like popping balloons. Drenched in humidity, smudged to a hazy gray, the dark forms a wilting frame around the single square of light suspended in mid-air, where she sits, trapped.
The room seems still, caught in an abandoned compartment of the time-train on a broken track. Under the glare of a naked bulb hanging from the scarred ceiling, her skin glistens like a slice of slick, wet sunlight, and her hair pours down her back in streams of jet black. Like an animal caught in headlights, she stares into the cracked, oval mirror, hypnotized by her own reflection. Her hand reaches out for the small matchbox. She watches dreamily as she cradles it in her palm, her thumb caressing the grainy, ridged side. A matchstick hisses to life as she rasps it against the box. She waits while the flame dances closer and closer to her fingertips, courting the deepening heat. Unhurriedly, she picks up a cone of incense, lights it. The heavy smell of jasmine pushes into the already swollen air as fire eats through the sticks, reducing their tall, proud forms into crumbling flakes of ashes and curling wisps of smoke.
She must be beautiful. The thought echoes in her head like a litany as she immerses one trembling finger into a shallow bowl of rose-water by her feet. Bringing it to her face, she inhales deeply. The fragrance reminds her of her mother. The trembling stops. Dipping it into the coin-sized box of powdered kajal, she stirs. Carefully, she runs the blackened finger along the bottom rim of her huge, oddly slanted eyes. They look bigger now, she thinks, as she brushes a stubby wand of mascara over her eyelashes. They look beautiful. She must be beautiful.
Her skin glows as she pearls it over with iridescent grains of gold. Sucking in her cheeks, she languidly traces the brush over sharp cheekbones, again and again, until her teeth sink into slippery flesh and the tangy, coppery taste of blood slides over her tongue. The trembling returns. She presses shaking fingers to her wide mouth, dropping the brush with a clatter. The air quakes, the time-train jerking to a brutally sudden start. She quells the need to close her eyes. To look away from the mirror. For the one in the mirror is beautiful. She must be beautiful.
She peels her fingers away from her mouth, twisting them around the neckline of the black robe she is wearing and waits for the trembling to stop. Breathing deeply, in and out, she lets her mind empty of all fear, as she is taught. Her small frame wracks with the effort and her pulse races. She never takes her eyes off her reflection. She can sense the calm creeping closer to the edges of her consciousness. Pulling at it desperately, she cocoons herself within it. Steadier, she leans in closer to the mirror and paints her mouth a deep, bloody red.
She can see him. Her destiny, he is beckoning her from the cold, swirling dark. For it is she who will bring him light, and heat. It is she who, in an explosion of brilliance, will fuse them together for ever. Bright streamers of anticipation ripple through her, burning her up, making her invincible. Making her beautiful.
Her movements are sharper now, more purposeful. She pulls the stopper off an ornate perfume bottle, trailing the oil along her neck and between her breasts where it blends with sweat and makes her skin bloom with scent. She imprints a red, circular bindi between thin, well-arched brows. She fastens her mother’s gold earrings, which are reserved for very special occasions, onto her earlobes and remembers to grease her hands before slipping on the intricate, small bangles that came to her from her grandmother. After a long, searching look, she rises from her perch on the hard, wooden stool. She must be beautiful.
She strips out of the robe, climbs into underwear, then carefully fastens the wide belt around her waist. Pulling the long, delicately embroidered kurta over her head, she steps into matching loose pajamas. The phone peals, splintering the brittle silence. After counting three rings, she picks it up. She hangs up without a word. Gathering up her bag and shawl, she steals a last glance at the mirror. Watches her eyes darken, her mouth firm. She would be beautiful.
The black Astra is waiting in the driveway. She doesn’t recognize the man holding the door for her. She slips into the backseat, and is swallowed up into a cramped, airless world. Opaquely tinted windows block all light, and silence seems to be pressing in on her in concentric circles. Claustrophobia threatens. The car stops.
She strides into the brightly-lit throng of well-dressed people. Her senses are honed as if they were shoved into a pencil-sharpener. Her pulse races, goose-bumps bead over her skin, her vision sharpens. She smiles at familiar faces, touches fingers, exchanges air-kisses. But she never stops, moving subtly, inexorably towards her goal.
She reaches the stage, waits for her turn to congratulate the newly elected Chief Minister. There is no outward sign of nerves. Her arms remain crossed under her shawl, her feet still, her face relaxed. She climbs the trio of steps, walks towards the politician. Their gazes meet, hold. Under her shawl, she reaches for the narrow lever attached to her belt. Her smile kicks up a notch, then sharpens. Her grip tightens. For a second, she savors the savage triumph pumping through her. Then she pulls.
She is beautiful.