Maya: Whispers of Sarees and Secrets

A Solo Performance

Her thoughts instantly transported her back to the day she had first laid eyes on him. She remembered how, like all the local girls and college students, she had developed a crush on this man.

Shaiz- the romance fiction writer and the cherished dream of every girl back then. However, he was here today as 'Shahbaaz Akhtar', not by his pen name.

Her father's limited financial means had never allowed her the liberty to indulge in his books, but she had been repeatedly told by her friends that she bore a striking resemblance to his characters.

Her journey through senior secondary school had been a struggle. Her volatile and capricious personality wasn't appreciated in the semi-remote village where she had grown up, nor by her own family. Yet, whenever anyone heard her sing, they were left in awe of the voice she possessed, though her father's alcoholism and her self-centered brother had never bothered to encourage her talent.

Entering college for the first time had given her the opportunity to read Shaiz. As she read the line,

"woh sundar thi, jab bhi who zindegi jeeti thi" (She was beautiful when she used to live),

it had been enough to stir a whirlwind of emotions in her during her sensitive teenage years. She devoured everything he wrote. The term 'crush' didn't quite capture what she felt for him. Growing up amidst extremely lecherous men, she yearned to understand the person who breathed life into, celebrated, and worshiped women through his words.

She had a golden opportunity on the silver jubilee of the annual Ras Leela Mela in her village temple. A group of girls from her college had been chosen to perform a chorus in the cultural event, and he was to be the chief guest. She remembered that day vividly. They had all been instructed to wear blue sarees with white blouses for the performance. When she was selected, she eagerly shared the news at home and asked for a saree. However, her father had flatly denied her request, stating, "If she goes singing and dancing like this at night, they'll call her a nachaniya."

His refusal had hurt her deeply, and she couldn't fathom the pain of not being able to perform in front of the person she had secretly developed admiration for during her formative years. Out of frustration, she had chosen her only red saree, a gift from her family when she had reached a certain age. She arrived at the venue wearing it, and the president of the event scolded her sternly for breaking the matching outfit idea. That day, something had shifted within her, and she couldn't sing in the chorus. Her teenage mind couldn't bear being relegated to serving as a tray bearer for the committee members, as if she had been born to serve.

In the corner, tears flowed freely from her eyes as she stood there, feeling crushed and disheartened.

When she finally heard someone requesting a glass of water, she turned, and to her astonishment, it was him. Her red cheeks and swollen eyes must have raised an obvious question in his mind.

As she handed over the glass, their fingers brushed, and the touch sent a familiar sensation coursing through her, much like what she felt at this very moment.

He appeared neat and in his late twenties, with affectionate eyes. He was clad in a blue kurta, which unexpectedly prompted her to release the pent-up misery she had been holding inside.

The man she had longed to see had discovered her in the midst of her tears. She despised this red saree, believing that she could have been on stage if she hadn't been wearing it. With a profound sadness, she contemplated leaving, but then she heard him say, "Don't cry, this saree....."

At that moment, she didn't fully grasp the significance of his offer, but he vanished the next instant. She was called for a solo performance on demand by the chief guest, and he was seated right in front of her as she began singing with the harmonium. However, he left before she could finish.

                      *****

Ghat se ghat mein aisi phiri re                                                                                                                                      Mujhe se thikana mera kho gaya 

Yeh kya ho gaya

Prem me tohre.....

                      *****

He didn't leave this time, and she couldn't help but wonder what he might be jotting down in his notes. But regardless of what it was, he had, in a way, compelled her to write down her life today.

She marveled at the paradox—a man who had refused to see her unclothed could write about feminine beauty in the most exquisite way possible.

Three hours had already passed when she finally re-entered the present moment as he closed his pen. Had he already finished? What would come next? She certainly hadn't anticipated this night would end so soon.

                      *****