Translation of story in english

Pink nailpolish chemical

Phulla saw the celestial Urvashi herself climb the stairs of the temple that afternoon. She did not climb, her footsteps swam, each movement a stroke measuring the width of the stair it went over. Phulla's verandah was one third up the stairway. The steps flowed past her like a river that thinned as it climbed to where the temple stood like a child's toy in the distance. The river had thrown up an exotic fish today. She must be 11 or 12. The dark line of kohl framed eyes shining with the deep radiance of rare jewels, and highlighted the smoothness of a skin that invited touch, and intimidated it. Soft pebbles of mogra embellished her neck, and on her forhead, a careless powder of sindoor.

Sweeping the steps with long lashes, the gaze of that - painting- skimmed over Phulla as it skimmed over everything else, noticing nothing. The moment of the indifferent passing over stung Phulla like a caress. She sharply pulled her own eyes away from that vision, like a mother pulls her children from the patronising neighbours. The eyes turned away, and still staring, fell on the young girls'- mother? Standing beside her.

The evening sun slapped the older woman's face, highlighting its dryness. The supple wetness of feature, so much the lot of the daughter, made it look more parched in contrast. Made you feel as you watched, that there might have been an osmosis. A parasitic drawing out of the water from mother to daughter.

If it had indeed taken place, it must have gone through the hands. The daughter's hands were soft and lifeless, the mothers had the restlessness of an engineer. This one project, of making a beauty of her child, seemed to have taken it all out of her. She was spent, and a negative space hung like a frightening aura about her, her face bore the awareness and the fear of that hovering absence. But her hand was in her daughters' waiting for her Urvashi to soar into the skies, with her..

When Phulla's eyes moved , uncontrollable, to the daughter again, she felt a sky rise like a dome inside her. It billowed like a stage cloth and a green thorn bush shoot into flames that singed Phulla as they died. Phulla's plump fingers kept plucking at the flowers, her eyes gave nothing away, the Beauty walked past her. And choking in the strands of her oil and her flowers, Phulla turned to look at her verandah.

Her mother was slowly stoking the evening fire, as if in sleep. It was a sleep she had embraced the day her daughter had taken to making garlands and she knew their small house in the temple yard was secure. As her Bold textmother must have felt before her.

The wave passed, the stairs were stone again. A cat, tail erect, was slowly measuring distances across the verandah. Twilight seemed to have emptied the verandah of life. A bird boned mother, moved among hollow stones, an empty cat, and an evening sticking to them all. Phulla's bones ached with the wind inside them as she took the evening vessels to the ghats to wash.

The mats were deserted today. Empty. But the kathavachak had started his story. Phulla seated herself with a new hope that maybe, today, in this emptiness, the story might be told just for her. In her hand she clutched the pouch of sindoor that she had got from Azgar.

Dhurninder was sitting staring at the sky, his hands making an arch on the mat: clouds were congressing on a stunted moon. If Dhurinder shut his eyes, a clutter of images fell into the blackness behind his eyes. Like canvases torn at the corners- the horse in Baroda, Sir Griffith in a corridor. And today Aai, extending a baby to him, saying “Yours”. Dhurinder had looked beyond Aai's shoulder to where a small woman was standing. Dhurinder's fingers felt Kamala's body in the sand and his eyes snapped open. In the distance, across the mats, Baba's face glowed white in the light of the lantern.

The boatmen of Nasik were on strike, so Dhurinder had also had to sit on a pahalwan's shoulders to cross the water. He had not liked it. If it was not for the luggage, he would have swum across. That angry river in spate beckoned his muscles. Mid stream, Chandu Kaka had passed by, clutching onto his dhoti, rocking on his perch, giggling obscenely. Ahead of Dhurinder, a woman had covered her face completely, and then also bent her head, making sure no one recognised her. Dhurinder was looking at her ankles, they were not very young, there was a firmness to the curve of a long, slightly callused foot, pushing into the pehalwan's chest. Kaki? His own ankle itched to spur his mount like the horse in Baroda, “Hurry”!!

He waited twenty minutes on the ghat after reaching, waiting to see who her consort would be. He could tell Kamala about it at night . Would she be amused?

Ahead of him, a fat girl was restlessly playing with a crumpled packet of paper. She looked working class, taking advantage of the empty mats to take some good seats. And then all her attention was on her package! Truth be told, today Dhurinder was also finding it difficult to concentrate on Baba's story. Baba's words were lost somewhere across the empty mats. The large river bank was swallowing the small man's voice. Dhurinder wished he had a large Ravi Verma canvas with him, just then- then crowds would clamour again! His father perhaps no longer knew how to bring them alive..

Phulla could not bear to hear of Jatayu. This old man, casting bird shadows in lamplight, telling of another vain bird, just like him. Vain for honour. Silly currency. Phulla closed the eye her fingers had been drawing and redrawing in the sindoor with an angry clutch at the paper. She got up and left.

And Dhurinder could bear his fathers telling no more. His wide open eyes now conjured up “Kamala”, only “Kamala”.

When she had washed the dishes with it, Phulla took to the waters herself, plunging herself into the river, swimming till mid stream, to the foot of the small temple. Where she wept moon blue blackness, for herself.

When Dhurinder ducked into the black cloth to look at his Baba through his camera, he found the chair was empty. Baba had fled the camera's captivity.

It was the next morning. Dhurinder was quietly trying to forget his look at Baba, the previous night. He had placed the apparatus of the camera between them today. He wanted to compose a Baba, make an image and love that image. But Baba had not consented. Nor Kamala. Holding the leg of his companion, Dhurinder knew then that he must leave to live with the camera.