MOGRA

The fragrance of the mogra flowers filled the room. He felt alive. The whiff of fresh mogra flowers brought back a lot of memories. He chose one among those memories – of the first time he met her. She had them in her hair then too, and he had instantly fallen in love with her long black hair, beautiful smile and child-like innocence.

His hands searched for her trying to reach the flowers. She was serving curry on his plate for dinner. She held his struggling hands and sat next to him on the bed, as he touched her head, feeling her with his hands and then her plait and the soft, blooming, fresh and beautiful flowers there. He took deep breaths, to inhale their fragrance.

A terrible accident last year took his eyesight and paralyzed most of his body. Medication and physiotherapy were never ending. He was now blind in his eyes, but his memories were still vivid. He relived the memory, while his wife fed him and gave him medicines.

One of the tablets made him sleep. Nothing could wake him now, until their effect died down next morning.

She closed the door behind her slowly and silently, as she stepped out. Not that he would hear anything, but it was good that way.

She opened the main door, where her client was waiting to come in. Her day-job as a receptionist was not helping her out sufficiently enough for the medicines and the physio treatment. She realised that she would have to do more to support her husband. And hence, she now had a night job too since 6 months.

Unknown hands touched her and caressed her. In the beginning, she would touch his feet and ask for his forgiveness every day. As days went by, she became numb and lifeless. A part of her died every night.

And as the unknown hands clutched at the mogra on her hair, the thread snapped, scattering the broken petals everywhere on the floor carpet. She looked at the lifeless, withered pieces of a once alive mogra, drawing parallels to her own-self. She was just like those flowers – broken and bleeding on a bed of cacti.