Posted:
To Revathi, who so vehemently wants a bad girl for dear O.
Omkara twirled the glass between his fingers. The blood red wine swirled inside, reflecting the dim lights coming from the dance floor. Light romantic music filled the room. He leaned against the bar counter, lightly tapping his feet at the low music began observing the couples dancing on the floor. Most men were dressed in semi formal or formal suits and he noticed some women wearing expensive dresses and some less westernized ones wearing saris and heavy jewelry. He noticed a gathering of foreigners on one side. All of the couples who were dancing wore a mask of one kind or the other, apparently a theme for the party. The floor was crowded, less so than most clubs on New Year's, but just enough. There weren't any kind of nuisance by the visitor's, the mark of a typical elite gathering.
Rudra would find this party boring; he mused and immediately found himself thinking about his brothers. He had promised Shivaay that he would be home for New Year's when he had left home over a week ago to participate in an International Art Exhibition at Delhi. But the temptation of meeting a very dear colleague from another country and the prospect of discussing some novel ideas on sculpting had kept him in the Capital city for New Year's. After listening to a series of complaints from Rudra and snide remarks from Shivaay over the phone he had consoled them and had promised his brothers of his return the very next morning itself. However even Omkara Singh Oberoi had troubles staying in a hotel room while the rest of the world was in a festive mood and he had accepted the invitation of his colleague to a New Years eve party.
He sighed. He wasn't a social butterfly like Rudra, nor did he excel at developing contacts like Shivaay. Social gatherings bored him and he was feeling out of place. Just when he was beginning to think of a way for excusing himself out of the party, a woman strolled towards the bar counter. She wore a simple black off-shoulder gown which perfectly hugged her petite figure. A wavy mass of her raven black hair fell across her smooth shoulders. Omkara noticed her dusky mahogany complexion and guessed her to be an Indian. A beautiful silver mask covered her nose and cheek bones, robbing him off the chance to a have a look at her face. The woman leaned on the counter beside Omkara to order a drink and the faint smell jasmine filled his nostrils.
He felt his eyes follow each and every one of her movements. He was about to divert his eyes when her beautiful ones bore onto his. Omkara was enamored. Her eyes were deep, dark pools of coal blank ink and they seemed to paint a myriad of emotions. He felt himself heating up; the woman had caught him off guards. Omkara wasn't a man who was easily enticed by women yet something about the one beside him made a shift in his heart. It wasn't mere desire that had made him look at her; the woman was different from the rest of the gathering. Every single person in the room was either an artist or someone associated with art, their stance were welcoming, their gestures pleasant, they radiated warmth and acceptance except for the one woman standing before him. She radiated power. Her eyes were cold and dark. Her stance indicated authority. Everything about her screamed danger and Omkara was enchanted.
"Would you like to dance?" Her voice was the color of gold, high yet musical. Omkara stared at her for a moment gauging her expressions. Her lips were oddly set into a half smile, almost as if she were struggling to smile fully but is unable to because it wasn't a habit. Omkara was suddenly reminded of someone and he smiled.
"I do not dance. But thank you for asking." He said politely. She smiled a clear full smile. The bartender placed a glass of wine on the counter and the woman turned to take it. Strands of hair shifted from her back and Omkara caught the glimpse of black ink on the base of her neck in the dim light.
"You are not an Artist, are you? " He asked. The woman looked at him oddly for a moment and then smirked.
"No. I am not an artist. I came to this party for a friend. How come you asked?" Omkara smiled at the question and then shrugged.
"So what do you do?" He asked. The woman smirked once again. She took a mask from the basket on the counter and held it out to him.
"Dance with me Mr. Omkara Singh Oberoi and I'll talk." There was a twinge of authority in her voice. Omkara chuckled and took the mask from her hands. The woman clearly knew who she was talking to. He wasn't surprised by her familiarity. He was in his own merit a rather famous name in the world of Art and she was a woman closely knit with the Art Society. But she was a mystery to him, a walking, breathing mystery and Omkara loved mysteries.
Her hands brushed his jacket as she helped him with the mask. Omkara held out his hand for her. Instead of placing her hand inside of his, she clasped his palm and pulled him into a rather dark corner of the dance floor. The music was low and sensuous. Omkara's hands clasped her waist and she placed hers over his shoulder. She guided him through the swings and they danced slowly with the music.
The woman moved away from him but he held her hand and pulled her back. Her back gently crashed onto his chest. The scent of jasmine intensified, Omkara was intoxicated.
"Tell me. What is your name? Tell me about yourself stranger." Omkara asked in a low voice with a smile. He was amazed at how effortlessly he was flirting with a woman he had just met. The woman smiled and turned around. Om gently dipped her.
"Why, Mr. Poet, are you looking for a new muse?" She asked as he pulled her back up. Omkara's smile widened, so she knew that he was a poet. Her hands found a way back up his shoulders to the base of his neck, her fingers brushing his long locks. It was strangely intimate, something he had never experienced with a person he had just met.
"I might be, but you had promised to tell me about yourself." He leaned in and whispered in her ear. Two can play this game, he thought, however dangerous it seemed. His left hand found the base of her spine and the right, her hand.
"But I had only said I would talk, hadn't I? And we are talking." The tone was mocking. But Omkara was little mad at the tone. He chuckled.
"You tricked me into dancing." He turned her and wrapped his hands around her. She brushed his cheeks with her hands and closed her eyes for a moment. Omkara was overcome by a sudden desire to run his fingers over each and every contours of her face. The sculptor in him had found what he had desired, what he had been thirsting for so long, his muse. Only if he could see the whole of her face, if he could remove the mask.
Omkara reached out to untie her mask but she caught his arm with one hand and pressed the other on his cheek. Omkara gasped as her lips touched his own and passion was set alight. She bit his lower lip in vehemence and Omkara lost his bearings. She left his hand and it immediately found her lower back. All reason was lost. For the first time in his being, his carnal desires consumed his rationality. Kissing her was the greatest pleasure.
Then abruptly, it ended. He was falling. His knees hit the floor and he fell sideways. Warmth spread through his shirt from the pit of his stomach, and then it was excruciating pain, pouring into his being like hot metal. He touched the origin of his torment and found the wet, sticky liquid. Blood. Omkara looked up, she stood over him. The silver of the knife flashed for a second before it disappeared into her dress. Her lips were a thin line. Then it was darkness.
------
The sound of sirens from the numerous police vehicles and the ambulance pierced through the window of the apartment from down below. She stood behind the dresser and calmly stripped. Not one drop of blood stained her dress. Clean job. As she heard the sound of the TV being switched on she pulled on a pair of old ripped jeans and a black crop top. The man who switched on the TV stood wide eyed as he read the news of the Famous Artist Omkara Singh Oberoi being stabbed at a party which was conducted at the hotel across the street. She came out from behind the dresser and stood in front of him.
"Were you mad? Why did you take up a job on one of the richest men in India? And you kissed him? God have you no sense of stealth? Did you-" His voice died down in his throat as he took in her expressions. Her eyes were set ablaze as they followed the figure of Omkara Singh Oberoi on a stretcher in the footage on TV.
"He won't die..." She said in a low voice after an eternity. "Not yet. He has been marked for the angel of death. Omkara Singh Oberoi will lose every single thing he holds dear. I will take every single thing he values from his life one by one. He will bleed from every inch of his body. He will beg for his own death. And then, then I will destroy him. This is only the beginning."
PS - Idea credit to Rev!
