I rest my head against a pillar, gazing upwards at the ceiling as the fingers of a musician glided among his sitar. The architecture of these royal grounds have never failed to amaze me -- how can I describe? Everything was simply so elaborate, so precise. Even the marble floors are often adorned in rangoli, regardless of whether or not a celebration is near.
The calming sitar strums are beginning to fade, which dissapoints me quite gravely. Usually he plays longer than this. I would know, as I am always found in this general area, dangerously close to the men’s appartments.
“Mehendi!” My name is called from the corridor, and I stand up immediately. I wrap my pallu of my saree around my head and walk in the opposite direction. I know who spoke, and I do not wish to run into her.
“She’s in there.” I heard another say, causing me to walk faster.
“Mehendi -- ah, there you are!” I stop in my place, crinkling my nose as I noticed she had found me.
I turned to her, “What would you like, Indira?” My tone of voice is flat, not even making the attempt to sound pleased.
“Can’t I speak to you without wanting anything?”
“You wouldn’t.”
The expression on her face became grim, but it quickly returns to a forced smile.
“I only wanted to warn you that a storm is coming.”
Of course, what else would she want to speak about?
“That’s not true.”
“Are you mad, Mehendi? Go outside. You’ll see the clouds darkening, and the wind has started to blow. Perhaps you should go to the outer courtyard, it would be such a shame to see it go out.”
“Indira, I’m not in the mood.” I say as I turn away.
“You remind me of Meena, you are about as cowardly as her. No wonder you speak with her so much.”
“You remind me of the courtesans, you’re about as pure as them. No wonder you speak with them so much.” With that, I make my way into the corridor.
I check over my shoulder to make sure she is not behind me before darting to the outer courtyard. She was right, the clouds have become Lord Krishna’s skin tone, and the wind caused the draped mohagony curtains to go mad.
I notice it sits in the corner, up against the same pillar it has for everyday now. This is lucky, since typically either Indira or her companion, Shivakari, would move it in order to anger me -- which isn’t hard at all.
Gently, I wrap my fingers around its base, carefull not to burn myself on it’s flame.
Yes, flame. My daily disputes with Indira and Shivakari revolve around this flame, as they view my care for it as a weakness of mine. They have even come to a conclusion that I am a witch, because it simply wont go out, despite their desperate attempts.
But it will never go out.
I won’t allow that to happen.
YOU ARE READING
Oil Lamp
Historical Fiction[Based on Devdas] Mehendi is not just a design put on the hands of brides, it is a name. It is her name. She lit an oil lamp years ago and never lets it go out, but it seems as if it doesn't want to go out, anyway. The reasons for doing so are unkn...
