Our Flaming Love

153 days to film release

Shraddha huffed down onto her sofa, shutting her eyes. She breathed in and out, trying to drown out the noises of the city, trying to make the heavy pressure on her heart disappear. Varun had come by, finally approaching the topic of their disagreement 5 days ago. Their responsibilities had been dragging along the impending confrontation, weighing the burden heavier. Contradicting their expectations, it had gone really well. Life always decides to take the serendipitous route, especially when one anticipates the worse. 

Varun agreed to shimmer down his abrupt actions when he's protective and Shraddha compromised to understand his outburst if he does do so. Both parties achieved what they wanted. But something was off, at least to Shraddha's perspective.

"Woof!" Shyloh nudged his exasperated owner, trying to sniff out her worries.

"Hello, baby! Whatchu doin'? Do you want cuddles? Yes, yes, I know you want cuddles," Shraddha scratched under Shyloh's chin, making him roll over in delight.

Shraddha continued her afternoon in the blissful world of her apartment. Every piece of ornament hung and laid in the home meant something. There were framed photos in every room in the house, the glass covers often glinting in the morning sun. 

Her home was formed by eclectic pieces of art she happened across. Some from the vivid, bold streets of New York; others, the sandy hills and rocks of Cappadocia. She has always been a well-travelled and cultured person. Her childhood and teen days were filled with vacations meeting different people from a variety of backgrounds. Shraddha always felt blessed by the convenience and comfort she attained in life. 

Though, there were odd artifacts in her home. Most were insignificant in history. They were just mundane, usual equipment used by folks back then. Her brother, Siddhanth, straight out laughed at her unusual choice of decoration.

"Who on earth hangs up a piece of old wooden spoon for decoration? Only you, Shraddha, only you."

But while everyone made fun of her, they were often the ones most perceptive of Shraddha love for unusual things. Any broken, left out artifact. She had this brilliant connection to life and everything it harboured. It's astounding, truly. She would gaze upon an object and she was instinctively bound to it. 

A collective of coloured knitted scarves hung over furnitures. Hues of blue, pink and yellow. But pastel, always pastel. Into the bargain, Shraddha's taste for colours is amazing. There was always a similar, large coloured piece carried out through the apartment. The walls or furniture or visible centerpiece. She often added a pop of radiance by propping a vivid red frame or laying out a textual carpet. 

All in all, when she made a home, she delivered it with her heart. Shraddha cared deeply for the broken and beautiful progenies of life. 

interval

Words on Shraddha's copy of the script blurred and gathered into straight, indecipherable lines. The evening sun lingered on the horizon, casting rich, burning light across the lower hemisphere of the apartment. Shraddha had spent her hours dutifully rehearsing and memorising her parts, only pausing for human needs.

She dragged her hands along her tired face, rubbing soothing circles on her eyelids. She leaned back and shut her eyes. There were pigeons on her balcony, chirping for their daily indulgence of rice. Kids were playing cricket on the ground floor, their laughter and effort carried to the upper levels of the apartment. Some desi mother was probably chasing their kid with a chappal, judging by the type of insults raining down. Shraddha chuckled, exhaling a dollop of air, and turned to her side. 

The sounds may have been exciting but the smell in the air was stagnant. It was clean but tasteless. Fresh prevailing wind curved in waves, depositing the salty essence of the sea. Shraddha hoped for a hint of jalebi or any tasty, crispy street food in the mix. Street food is a blessing, she thought as she licked her lips in bliss.