an sms story57

the next day:



Anna:The waves of
pain...reared high
up and washed
over my head,
pulling me under. I
did not resurface-
new moon



she waited by her rose garden. silent. the autumn sun kissed her hands
as she tried to shade her eyes and see if any message had come.
Anna sat on the hand-woven mat and watched the red new leaves of her
spice-trees.the bay leaves.she had never been able to use the leaves of her
garden in cooking. for that, the market ones...she remembered how, once,
she had  rolled the dry bay leaves, lit them and smoked.so soothing. she
had always itched to smoke. the smoke.in one corner of the courtyard,
a mound of dry leaves were burning.the smoke,coiling towards the clear sky
....in childhood, she used to stand in the smoke and imagine that she was
floating through the white clouds.there was no cloud these days, the light,
fluffy white ones.Anna's inner sky had a riot of dark-blue, heavy clouds
though.dark-blue.the colour in which she used to draw lord Krishna and
Radha .the colour of sorrow was blue as she got to know when she first
listened to Cliff Richards' songs.she had often drawn Armaan in the paint
window of her computer, in front of a clear blue background,  the colour
of a mountain brook. and her eyes somewhere...happy with a light-blue tinge.
she lost all those paintings, the only representations of Armaan she had with
her, to formatting.she never got over it.those pictures, so clearly defining
the world she built with Armaan...the moments..not of everyday life...in sylvan
mountains, middle of sandy deserts n camels, on the terrace of a fortress....
all gone and she could not paint him again. and there was always that unfathomable
distance between the picture-Armaan n picture-Anna.sometimes she in the
background, sometimes he...never converging, never meeting...Armaan hung on
the wall of a Yves Saint Laurent Anna..Anna stared at an Armaan sitting idly
by a tree....

Armaan:NO MESSAGE.
             (to be contd.)