Twelve Weeks of You

Week Seven

Week Seven

The Champa flowers wet from their afternoon bath fell on Karna's face, earning a wrinkle as each one left a wet sloppy kiss. Karna slid them off, not opening his eyes. The cool winds in the air mixed with the frantic typing sound of Mridula's laptop was the most peace he had tasted in a long while.

His body fell like a leaf that had finally detached itself from the clutches of the dying tree and was now living his last few moments touching the ground like it always yearned to do. Even if it was something completely insane to want, to touch, to yearn for- to fall and wither away, he was happy to be the leaf if only for a few moments, his head resting on the softness of her thigh. Her other knee was arched up with the laptop on it, her fingers occasionally going through his hair and then returning to the keys.

He opened his eyes to look at her as the faint sun filtered through her hair, barely reaching him and he remembered the book Rooman had tossed his way yesterday. Karna had stared at the thin copy of the book that looked like it was in its deathbed before noticing the smirk on Rooman's face.

"It's finally time to read some poetry, if you want to survive," Rooman spoke, his face looking like he had won the war. Karna sat up, flipping the soft pages as his eyes settled on the poetry. "I can't believe this day has finally come."

"Start with Ahmad Faraz" He laughed before leaving. Karna had struggled between reading and not reading the book. He didn't want to make an effort like that, one that looked too deceitful to translate what exactly he felt for Mridula. He decided not to as he tossed the book next to him. And then the curses crowded his mind. The three curses of Karna from Mahabharat and how his goodness betrayed him on the most important day of his life. He knew deep down he was effected by those curses too, if not three then at least the one he received on the day he was only trying to help. He didn't want the curse to cut him with Mridula at-least.

He looked at the book again and picked it up on an impulse glancing through the words of the man he knew she adored. But now, as he looked at her, he couldn't bring himself to speak the lines he had thought he would slip in casually to woo her more. There was something that stopped him from faking anything with her and this annoyed him.

Yet his heart remembered this strange lines from one of his poems that weren't hopeful. That he just couldn't slip in casually but that was all his mind seemed to focus on.

'ab ke ham bichhḌe to shāyad kabhī ḳhvāboñ meñ mileñ, jis tarah sūkhe hue phuul kitāboñ meñ mileñ ' (should we now be parted, in dreams we might be found like dried flowers found in books, fragile, fraying browned)

And he didn't know why his mind kept repeating it as if it was a prophecy he feared too much. "You must have a lot of flowers stored away in your books." He spoke all of a sudden, pulling her attention towards him. She looked down at him, arching her eyebrow at the strangeness of the question."What makes you ask that?"She questions back, her brown eyes resting on him completely now.

Karna shrugged, as another Champa flower fell on his flower. She picked it up, tugging on the petals. "You are a writer, you fit the definition of the type of person who likes storing flowers."He answered sheepishly as she frowned before smiling. He saw the remnants of what could have been a dimple on her face as she shook her head. "Yes but I never got any flowers to store in my books." She answered softly, and as Karna sat up he saw Champa flowers entangled in her hair.

The words completely baffled him, and for a moment he thought how was it possible that no one ever gave her flowers? His heart yearned to pluck every flower he would see just so that he could give it to her and then the thought made him shiver. His heart was going down a road that was too slippery, he had never done well with feelings.

And back here, he was at a crossroad.

He picked up one from her hair and took her palm. Her skin was softer than the petals of the white flower which he placed on it. "Maybe this could be the start of it."

—

Roooom: When are you coming back?

Rooooom: Rumi?