The bag waited for him, like always.
Solid. Dependable. If he pushed, it swung back. If he lashed out, it rattled on its chains in response.
Few things in life were as comforting in their simplicity. Action and reaction.
Shravan wrapped his hands in the elastic cotton, muscle memory guiding the cloth in between his fingers and around his knuckles. Next came the gloves, his fingers settling into the familiar grooves carved out over hours of pounding.
After a few minutes with the jump rope, the sweat began to trickle down his back. He stood facing the bag, stretching his long arms and his chest, rolling out his shoulders and neck.
But even as he took his usual stance, bouncing lightly on the balls of his feet, visions of Suman bombarded his focus.
Suman the bride, in the center of a whirlwind of activity.
All he remembered were her eyes, pleading.
Pop. His fist connected with the bag, a gentle jab, trying to get a feel for his opponent. Pop. Pop-pop. He shifted on his feet.
He had watched her sit silently as her family and friends tittered around her, their jokes and knowing glances meant to gently embarrass the blushing bride.
Pop-pop thwack. The cross soon followed, sending the punching bag swinging slightly.
Instead, the set of her shoulders remained rigid, her pursed lips refusing to blossom even once into her goofy smile.
And when she had looked at him...
The punches came quicker now - hook, hook, elbow, uppercut, uppercut, push. Push. Breathe.
His shoulders started to burn as he picked up the pace.
And when she had looked at him, his battered heart had thumped painfully at the sorrow in her eyes. Where was his Sumo, it had wondered. Who was this imposter who did not dare to speak?
Aditya had been hunched over her hand, slowly and deliberately marking his bride.
The anger had then returned, its fiery roar drowning out his heart's futile questions.
So what if it should have been his name hidden in her mehndi?
The strikes landed furiously, one right after another. Thwack thwack thwack thwack POP. Repeat. Repeat. Repea- He gasped for breath.
So what if he wanted his name on her lips?
The chain jangled in protest as he swung into a roundhouse kick, his shin attempting to slice the bag in half. Again. And again.
So what if it should have been him they were teasing her about, that he should have the satisfaction of watching the blush rise from her throat, that he should be the one pulling her into the nooks and crannies of her home, ignoring her protests to be mindful of the mehndi, it hasn't dried yet, and smirking as those protests turned into sighs when her small frame fit just so in his arms -
His lungs burned. Sweat dripped off his face.
The bag creaked gently now, swinging back and forth in the wake of his assault. Action and reaction.
If only everything were so simple.
THE END
Indian Mythology
