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DHOKHA DHADI
EPISODE ONE
"Teri Aankhon Se Huyi Yaariyaan Chalte Chalte Yunhi'
It begins for them in an art gallery on a Saturday afternoon. He is there simply to enjoy the art, a busman's holiday perhaps.
If he's fortunate he might take inspiration from pieces in the gallery. He knows art. He is himself an artist, a man who sees the world around him and feels an unsatisfied hunger until he has made his own artifact of it. Often he must make a painting, a drawing perhaps, a tangible something that reflects what he has perceived, something that absorbs the external world into his being and expresses it outward again. It is the artist's pang to experience deeply.
One of the paintings has captivated him. It is a scene showing a cove on a lake, rocks and pebbles rising above the water and tangled underbrush leading beyond to forest. He has been to this place, at least to places like it. The painting takes him to these places as if they were hung in the gallery of his memories. He can smell the wood smoke from the fire, can hear the wind whispering through the white pines and the rustle of the waters through the pebbles. The bush, wild, unknown but comforting, being alone in nature and not separate from it. His mind drifts there for long moments.
He might purchase this one, so powerful, so inviting to him. He lifts the gallery guide to read about the artist, a name he doesn't know. But the light is dim where he stands and the print is small, so holding the guide in front he whirls around to catch better light.
Shock! He has turned straight into her, the woman striding by. They collide, hard, and his mind scolds himself. You should have known better, her heels clacking loudly on the wooden floor. The first contact is with his knuckles against the softness of her chest, he knowing immediately that it is her breast. Not a glancing brush against her, the impact presses his fist deeply into her yielding softness there, almost a punch. And his hand pushing against her breast, their bodies' momentum bringing their faces together until they are close, close as if starting to kiss. Her eyes are wide at being so startled. He can feel the warmth of her breath, smell her scent. Their faces are close, the briefest brush of her hair on his cheek. All this in an instant and he sees her flashing grimace in pain, but just as quickly it is gone. Instinctively, in an impulse of gallantry he pulls his punch, drops the guide and quickly moves his hands to her waist to steady her body against a fall. She recovers quickly, regains her balance in one small step.
And as suddenly as that they are face on, standing close like nervous teenagers slow dancing, not knowing exactly what to do. A second passes between them and then begins a cascade of apology, each talking over the other.
"I am so sorry. Are you hurt?" Omkara asked a little bit anxious.
"I am not hurt. I am not at all hurt." Gauri fumbled for words
"You're sure?" Omkara thought that the sudden jerk could cause some pain in her ankle... After all she was wearing stilletos
"I was not watching where I was walking and I did not give you enough space." Gauri apologized not able to look into his eyes
"No, no, no, my fault. Totally." Omkara tried to step forward to talk to her and she immediately stepped backwards almost losing balance again
He notes how his words and hers are different somehow. His, colloquial and easy. But she speaks in full sentences, sentences with grammatical correctness. And her pronunciation, it is precise and careful, formal and also correct. She is one edgy twenty first century girl ... All about dynamism yet grace ... A well practiced grace, hard core professional.
The overlapping flow of their words ends in the futility of their speaking. Each stops and waits. At last, he chuckles. Her smile is enigmatic, her lips pressed together, her eyes lighting up in inner amusement.
He nods, a cue that she should go first, his gentlemanly act. She raises her shoulders and hunches her head low as if shy.
"I am so sorry. I am afraid that I was not paying attention to how quickly I was walking." Gauri repeated for him to simply reply 'ITS OKAY'
Her accent. Corporate ? Her speech is as if she is reading it from a page of an English language textbook. Her measured words catch his attention. The voice, that was a voice of a vocalist ... A singer of romantic songs ... He simply knew it. She is a little older to be a college student, perhaps her mid twenties.
He suddenly becomes aware that his hands hold her at her waist, a firmness in his grip there, more than a dancer's grasp. He is uncomfortably close, in her personal space. He releases her and steps back, but the warmth of her, her slenderness remains a memory in his hands.
She notices that one of her buttons has slipped loose in their collision. She is embarrassed, blushes hotly. He feels embarrassed too. She quickly raises her hand to cover her exposed chest and turns sideways from him,. Adjusting the duppata over her kurti. She does this quickly, as if she needs to regain her modesty right away. He watches guiltily, her hand over her yellow kurti trying to cover some things intimate, a routine movement she would do in front of a mirror every day, but now, here in a public gallery. She tugs the sides of the duppata on her shoulders covering up now. Her hand is at her throat covering her flushed skin, as if locking herself within. She turns to face him again.
One last apology each, an awkward moment's silence and they separate to go about their business. As he bends to pick up the dropped gallery guide he watches her stroll away, not striding as before, but slowly, sauntering just a few paces. Hesitation? She stops further down the room looking at a wooden sculpture in a display case.
As he returns to his painting he feels her eyes upon him. There is an irresistible urge to look her way. He fights it for a moment but in the power of her gaze he finally succumbs and looks. Her head is bent low to the carving as if studying its detail, but it's a sham; her eyes are turned his way. She is looking at him askance, looking at his shoes at this instant, strange. He can't help but think that her eyes have travelled the length of his body, stopping just now at his shoes. He smiles inwardly. The size of my feet. As soon as she realizes that he is looking back, her gaze flashes up to his eyes and they connect.
Her eyes are uniquely brown, brown but not dark. A lighter shade, milk chocolate, they show the striking details of her irises. Her eyes have passionate force, holding him in their gaze, having him. As her eyes pierce him, he is astonished at their distinctive beauty.
Their eyes fix upon each other and the moment stops the world. He sees that same smile as before, her lips pressed together as if an inner thought has amused her. Again she stretches her shoulders high, holds her head low as if trying to disappear inside of herself. The posture is endearing to him, a demonstration of her shyness, her reserve.
There is no doubt. He smiles broadly, turns and goes to her.
If he's fortunate he might take inspiration from pieces in the gallery. He knows art. He is himself an artist, a man who sees the world around him and feels an unsatisfied hunger until he has made his own artifact of it. Often he must make a painting, a drawing perhaps, a tangible something that reflects what he has perceived, something that absorbs the external world into his being and expresses it outward again. It is the artist's pang to experience deeply.
One of the paintings has captivated him. It is a scene showing a cove on a lake, rocks and pebbles rising above the water and tangled underbrush leading beyond to forest. He has been to this place, at least to places like it. The painting takes him to these places as if they were hung in the gallery of his memories. He can smell the wood smoke from the fire, can hear the wind whispering through the white pines and the rustle of the waters through the pebbles. The bush, wild, unknown but comforting, being alone in nature and not separate from it. His mind drifts there for long moments.
He might purchase this one, so powerful, so inviting to him. He lifts the gallery guide to read about the artist, a name he doesn't know. But the light is dim where he stands and the print is small, so holding the guide in front he whirls around to catch better light.
Shock! He has turned straight into her, the woman striding by. They collide, hard, and his mind scolds himself. You should have known better, her heels clacking loudly on the wooden floor. The first contact is with his knuckles against the softness of her chest, he knowing immediately that it is her breast. Not a glancing brush against her, the impact presses his fist deeply into her yielding softness there, almost a punch. And his hand pushing against her breast, their bodies' momentum bringing their faces together until they are close, close as if starting to kiss. Her eyes are wide at being so startled. He can feel the warmth of her breath, smell her scent. Their faces are close, the briefest brush of her hair on his cheek. All this in an instant and he sees her flashing grimace in pain, but just as quickly it is gone. Instinctively, in an impulse of gallantry he pulls his punch, drops the guide and quickly moves his hands to her waist to steady her body against a fall. She recovers quickly, regains her balance in one small step.
And as suddenly as that they are face on, standing close like nervous teenagers slow dancing, not knowing exactly what to do. A second passes between them and then begins a cascade of apology, each talking over the other.
"I am so sorry. Are you hurt?" Omkara asked a little bit anxious.
"I am not hurt. I am not at all hurt." Gauri fumbled for words
"You're sure?" Omkara thought that the sudden jerk could cause some pain in her ankle... After all she was wearing stilletos
"I was not watching where I was walking and I did not give you enough space." Gauri apologized not able to look into his eyes
"No, no, no, my fault. Totally." Omkara tried to step forward to talk to her and she immediately stepped backwards almost losing balance again
He notes how his words and hers are different somehow. His, colloquial and easy. But she speaks in full sentences, sentences with grammatical correctness. And her pronunciation, it is precise and careful, formal and also correct. She is one edgy twenty first century girl ... All about dynamism yet grace ... A well practiced grace, hard core professional.
The overlapping flow of their words ends in the futility of their speaking. Each stops and waits. At last, he chuckles. Her smile is enigmatic, her lips pressed together, her eyes lighting up in inner amusement.
He nods, a cue that she should go first, his gentlemanly act. She raises her shoulders and hunches her head low as if shy.
"I am so sorry. I am afraid that I was not paying attention to how quickly I was walking." Gauri repeated for him to simply reply 'ITS OKAY'
Her accent. Corporate ? Her speech is as if she is reading it from a page of an English language textbook. Her measured words catch his attention. The voice, that was a voice of a vocalist ... A singer of romantic songs ... He simply knew it. She is a little older to be a college student, perhaps her mid twenties.
He suddenly becomes aware that his hands hold her at her waist, a firmness in his grip there, more than a dancer's grasp. He is uncomfortably close, in her personal space. He releases her and steps back, but the warmth of her, her slenderness remains a memory in his hands.
She notices that one of her buttons has slipped loose in their collision. She is embarrassed, blushes hotly. He feels embarrassed too. She quickly raises her hand to cover her exposed chest and turns sideways from him,. Adjusting the duppata over her kurti. She does this quickly, as if she needs to regain her modesty right away. He watches guiltily, her hand over her yellow kurti trying to cover some things intimate, a routine movement she would do in front of a mirror every day, but now, here in a public gallery. She tugs the sides of the duppata on her shoulders covering up now. Her hand is at her throat covering her flushed skin, as if locking herself within. She turns to face him again.
One last apology each, an awkward moment's silence and they separate to go about their business. As he bends to pick up the dropped gallery guide he watches her stroll away, not striding as before, but slowly, sauntering just a few paces. Hesitation? She stops further down the room looking at a wooden sculpture in a display case.
As he returns to his painting he feels her eyes upon him. There is an irresistible urge to look her way. He fights it for a moment but in the power of her gaze he finally succumbs and looks. Her head is bent low to the carving as if studying its detail, but it's a sham; her eyes are turned his way. She is looking at him askance, looking at his shoes at this instant, strange. He can't help but think that her eyes have travelled the length of his body, stopping just now at his shoes. He smiles inwardly. The size of my feet. As soon as she realizes that he is looking back, her gaze flashes up to his eyes and they connect.
Her eyes are uniquely brown, brown but not dark. A lighter shade, milk chocolate, they show the striking details of her irises. Her eyes have passionate force, holding him in their gaze, having him. As her eyes pierce him, he is astonished at their distinctive beauty.
Their eyes fix upon each other and the moment stops the world. He sees that same smile as before, her lips pressed together as if an inner thought has amused her. Again she stretches her shoulders high, holds her head low as if trying to disappear inside of herself. The posture is endearing to him, a demonstration of her shyness, her reserve.
There is no doubt. He smiles broadly, turns and goes to her.
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