The first ray of sun touched Durga’s warm skin. Her eyes opened to see Raja sa’s face the first thing in the morning. He was fast asleep. His lips, so passionate just a few hours ago, rested quietly. Durga touched his moustache fondly, curving it upwards on the end. Seeing that her attempts failed each time, she giggled. Raja sa was still fast asleep. She stretched her arms and slipped out of the bed. Dressing herself, she kept looking at him, smiling to herself. Strange emotions filled her bosoms. She felt light and fresh like a newly bloomed daisy.
The sun rose in the sky and the dawn was at its full vigour. Durga stood beside the window watching the birds chirp, the flowers dance at the touch of the wind, and felt the warmth of this strangely intimate environment. The world seemed to get clearer as if it was veiled under a crimson mist she failed to notice until now. The colours were brighter, sunlight more vivid, and the fragrances, sweeter.
She turned to look at herself in the mirror. Her tousled hair was like wild black waves. Her lips were no more stained and all the kohl was smudged. Yet she had never felt so beautiful before. The choli, she observed was torn at places and the dupatta was crumbled as if a piece of paper. Yet, they carried the touch of Raja sa, was the witness to their fondling, smelled like him, therefore, were now dearly special to her.
She was lost in the reflections of the night that had just passed when a soft moan brought her back in the moment. He turned to lay on his back with his face facing her. His mouth twitched a little and fingers stretched gently before he finally opened his eyes to see her standing in front of her. He smiled dreamily as if he had not seen her, as if she was unreal and just a figment of his imagination. But there she was, Durga, standing by the window. The light fell on her delicate feminine silhouette as if giving it a shape. He could not have looked away now that he knew she stood there, very much real. She was smiling with a joyous glint in her eyes. Her face shone, reflecting the story of the night they had spent together. Love and affection were, as if, marked in an indelible ink on her gestures and expressions. When she moved, she moved in love. When she touched him, she touched in love. When she lay her head to rest on his chest, it pronounced nothing but love. It wasn’t that Durga was the only woman Raja sa had ever made love to but with her it was different. Not so much in the lying, cuddling, fondling, caressing, or even in the final act of sex, but in the thoughts that flowed meanwhile. He had often seen women as a mere personification of beauty – a means of visual and sensory pleasure – an object with animation so to say. He had caressed them before but as a gardener who caresses the flowers, appreciating them for their beauty merely. But with Durga, he couldn’t help but be aware of her emotions. She was gay and passionate. Her body moved in a rhythm as if on the notes of music that only she could hear. And rhythm, contrary to a beautiful object, cannot be possessed. It can only be felt, praised, or denounced at once. And Durga,could evidently, not be denounced at all. Wrapped in white sheets, they stayed still in each other’s embrace for hours when finally there was a knock at the door. “Kaun hai?” “Maharani ji ka bulava hai hukum.” Dropping the white sheets, they finally parted. One last look and he was gone as if he never were there.