Book 4 in the Proposal Series.
YUGANTIKA IYENGAR
"You cannot fight your doom. It will fucking destroy you, Pookie."
She laughed, wrecking it deep within her guts. A voice that could slice through all the weak hearts. "No one can bring doom on me."...
Ptah Egyptian Deities God of Craftsmen and creation
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
Art was a reminder.
A reminder to keep erasing and start again until the strokes were perfect. Soft when required and harsh when it demanded. Neat and dirty. It was a constant alarm of her hold on that pencil, or the pen, brush, or a bloody eraser. She had it all.
Only she had to use it to her liking.
She could break nips, split the pages apart, burn the damn thing, and she would still be in control. All of it was at her mercy. She wasn't judged, called names, or thrown disgusted glares.
She held the power. She could move any way she deemed fit. Reach any outcome she may aim for and be applauded. It was all her.
No one, nothing could snatch her art from her.
She had endless avenues to explore, to express, to live, to lie, and to present a closure.
Art was hers; it couldn't be disowned. It couldn't be disgraced.
It was Yugantika - deformed, anonymous, and exhausting.
Damn much exhausting.
Taking a click, she uploaded her design to the cloud to be worked on at night. She would need to digitalize her sketch and breathe life into it to make it a part of her presentation tomorrow.
Checking the time on her hand, she decided to work on her hair. Pins and pricks later, she supported a side hairdo before starting on her make-up.
Bold red lipstick, smoky eyes, and minimal body glitter later she was ready to take a look at the dresses she packed here.
It was weird to decide on her look before she selected the dress, but weird and crazy was her.
Smoothening her black silk gown, she looked at her form in the wall-length mirror. A pearl-encased strip on her left shoulder held the piece clinching at her waist, pooling down to her feet. A slit on the side touching her upper thigh.
The black dress hugged her like a glove and she took a swirl before clasping the zip properly. Picking her black stilettoes, she wore them and practiced walking, two paces of her room and she was ready to step out.
It was the cocktail evening before the conference started tomorrow. A night of drinks, talks, dates, and socializing. She may hate talking to strangers but she was well-versed to run a room. Taking her pearl-embedded case clutch, she locked the door and dropped her phone and key card in it. Gliding through the hallways, she kept her chin high and walked towards the elevator.
Lalita would be skipping the party leaving her with no date. Her reason was jetlag, not that she needed a 24-hour security camera on her back. She was satisfied with her own company, some drinks, dancing with strangers, and who knew, she may let one of them escort her to her room, only to send the man away with blue balls.
