3 | Note Page 9 - Page 4

3 | Warmth 

His uniform was dark green. Dark green. The shade that would so frequently adorn her hands and when washed off it left the deepest shade of burgundy, a color he had grown to love. A color that resulted in warm cheeks and teasing giggles, whenever she wore those intricate swirls of red so proudly on her palms the women of the house would follow her, their hushed laughter and provoking words flooded the haveli. His eyes would fall on to her face, her cheeks aglow, her eyes simmering with a wish for their words to come true. He would leisurely sip on his chai, watching her from hooded eyes their hard brown becoming molten 'maybe one day they will come true Paro'. The heated cup sending warmth to the cockles of his heart maybe because it was laden with her warmth, her love.  

Her warmth, he could feel it everywhere. He felt it on his pressed uniform, he felt it when the sun pooled down his back and the deserts hot sand touched his fingers. He felt it in the gobi-sabzi she made with so much affection, he could feel it in his kashmiri chai she made for him. Just for him. He felt it on his bed, he felt it on his right hand one she would so lovingly curl into. But my loves the place where he felt it the most was his heart.  

But there was always something that held him back, always. And that day it had been his kakisa's words.  

"Your hands only become dark when your mother-in-law loves you, haina Rudra-bana" Her words were nothing short of poison.  

After that day, that horrendous and wicked day he had made certain she never wore mehendi. Never ever again. 

After that day there was no warmth, his heart was becoming devoid of any fervor. The voices inside of him were screaming, stop. STOP. But alas you can't stop time from doing what it does best. They say time heals all wounds and maybe at the beginning she was healing him, but now she was picking on the stitches. He felt the scratch and pinch every time he saw her hollow smile. It was with marred eyes and shaking fingers she would serve him food and his heart would cry.  

His heart, a place where no one entered she made a home out of. She made a home there, beckoned him inside, a place where he was allowed to ravish her openly but then one morning she got up and left him. All alone. His right hand was no longer warm, his gobi-sabzi cold, his chai cold, his bed cold and his heart? That was cold too, just how he liked it once upon a time but now it only said one thing: 

Stop. 

Please stop. 

I want the warmth again.  

Stop.  

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I sincerely thank everyone who commented and responded to the last instalment, thank you so much <3 and to all those that liked it. Yes another Rudra part, where is Paro you ask? Somewhere in my brain. I just needed to pen down Rudra first ^_^

As always please leave me your love and appreciation in likes and comments. 

-Asho

(oh and if you want to be PM-ed let me know ^_^)