SMILE
He was in absolute control over every aspect of his life,
but especially over himself, over his heart. This was his core belief. And then
she happened, and at first, he was absolutely sure that nothing would change. He
had married her. He had...needed to be with her. He had accepted her as his, by
degrees so tiny, by actions so small that he never remembered them later---he only
knew that he had.
She wouldn't cause a single heartbeat to skip, he vowed. And then
she would stumble, and he would find her in his arms, a fragrant duty that he
lingered over, his heart hammering at the thought of her pain. She would fall
ill, and the nights would turn into days as he worried and paced and made
everyone else's lives hell, since he burnt right alongside her.
Not a single murmur would disturb the tranquility of his thudding chest, he was
sure of this. And then she would dance at a Festival, or run chasing butterflies through the fields
surrounding his home, and his heart would soar with every movement, would glide
along her every footstep. Not a single ripple to heat the blood rushing through
his body, he promised. And then...his skin would tingle from her touches, her breasts would rise and fall with her quickened breaths as he caressed the rich promises of her body.
Such would be his control that he would look upon the sweetest face in the
world, and he would see nothing there, nothing at all.
And then... she would smile.
Her eyes would light
up, the emerald and agate shards in her hazel eyes turning translucent, the
huge orbs glittering with reflected joy, as if a switch to a light had been
turned on within. Fascinated, he would watch her lips, luscious berry pillows, wet
with the glaze of her mouth. The lips that gave him sleepless nights would
curve upwards, denting a small dimple into one plump, silky cheek. When she
smiled, her normally gentle features looked irradiated, her face turning ethereal
as if he had done something so magical, it reflected out of her as rays of joy.
And finally, her skin, something of an obsession with him, would tint with
delicately flushed color-- the soft rose-pink of a desert iris, his favorite
flower.
He did everything he could think of, to create that smile. This was an
unexpectedly difficult task. Not being a man who knew anything about pleasing a
woman, at first he worried incessantly over how to accomplish this. It was
terribly, vitally important that she smile. That this delicate, astoundingly
complicated, mysteriously layered woman be nothing but happy in his care. This
fantasy made flesh, whom he had somehow, in some unknown manner captured for
himself--- that she smile with her entire being.
He could protect her, watch her,
feed her, defend her. He could obsess over her every word, analyze every expression,
guard her comfort, predict her needs before she thought of them. He could
cherish her health, clothe her in silks and colors, he could work himself to
the bone to give her anything she even glanced at. All that was normal, all
that was easy. He simply devoted his entire being, his focus, his piercing intellect,
his strength and tenacity to doing all that.
But the smile... that was his reward for every moment's worry, for every
sleepless night, for every frantic heartbeat when she was not right there,
before his eyes. For months, he had not known of a reliable way to bring out
that smile. But accidentally, one day, he did. After that day, he relied on what
had once worked, and simply repeated that action, as often as he could. So now
he depended on what she had herself asked from him, once upon a time, and his reward
was the smile.
He bought her bangles by the dozens, in every color, silvered, gilded, studded
with stones or glinting with glitter. Whenever he saw her in a new ghagra, whenever
the sounds from her wrists dimmed, whenever the smile had not occurred with
the frequency that he demanded of it, he bought her bangles. He hid his
offerings in unexpected places, waiting, like a hunter with a deer at bay for
her to find them as she reached into wardrobes or folded her clothes. The tinkling
sounds heralding another gift would cause her to turn to him as he watched her,
and the smile would break out like the dawn of a summer day.
He loved the ritual that followed, hungrily watching her to make sure each step
happened correctly after the next. First she would exclaim, her eyes rounded
with delight, at the surprise he had planned, touching the long line of crystallized
glass with a delicate fingertip. He always touched them himself before he bought
them, to make sure there were no edges or rough spots on the bangles that could mar
her skin. No bangle seller in Chandigarth dared to give the frightening Major substandard
bangles with jagged edges when he showed up in their stores. But he made sure
of their perfection, anyway.
Then she would hurry to the mirror, her graceful
skirts swaying as she sat down before her dressing table, eyes sparkling with
joy. He liked to watch her reflection at this point, so he would angle himself
behind her to get the best view as she hurriedly grabbed the bangles she was
already wearing to remove them from her white arms. He liked the tinkling
sounds these older bangles made, ones he had probably bought the week before,
as she laid them into a collapsed pile on her table, careful, even of
these older gifts, because he had given them to her.
She would collect the older bangles, hanging them from the miniature pole things she had there on the table,
where her bangles resided. When he went to the bangle stores, he often bought
her new miniature pole things, because the bangles he bought her almost
obsessively would overflow from the older stands within weeks. They hung on
these stands, tinkling in the breeze, turning the table that once held just his
comb and cologne into a fairy land of color, a feminine display of adornment.
She never tossed these older bangles, and he knew she did not throw any away because
he sometimes counted them, noting their color and pattern as carefully as he
would note a vital clue in a case, just so he
would not accidentally purchase ones she already owned.
The new pair would now be graced with her attention. She would turn them upto the light from the window,
examining them with shining eyes, turning them in her hands to check the fit,
to see the entire pattern. The fit was never an issue, of course. If anything,
the bangles were always a shade larger than they needed to be. The Major
hated seeing any accidental red streaks from a too-small fitting, and knew her
wrist's measurements to a millimeter. She would then lower the bright glittering
mass to her skirts to check if the color matched her new dress.
It always
matched, exactly, because the Major always bullied Sunehri into giving him a
small scrap of cloth from any ghagra her Paro Bhabi ordered from their tailor. The
Major had once gone all the way to Jaipur to match his bride's new bangles to a
particularly difficult aquamarine shaded dress. The bangle hues were vital, there
were so many shades of the same color out there, and the glass churis
absolutely had to match her outfit exactly. No, he did not allow any
compromises when it came to their color.
Next the bangles would be divided into carefully symmetrical halves, the exact
number for each delicate wrist. His bride's little frown corrugating her brow as
she counted beneath her breath amused the Major as much as the anticipation of
the next step fired his veins. After the
counting into two symmetrical stacks was
done, she would lay them back on the
table, circles of color stark against the whitewashed wood. And then, his
favorite part of the ritual would occur.
She would glance at him over one slim
shoulder, her eyes wide, shining with shy entreaty. The smile, that bewitching, heart-beat increasing, blood heating smile
would shimmer before his eyes as her delicate eyebrows would rise, a silent
question in their expression. And he would wait, his heart hammering, for her
to pout at his silence, and then turn fully towards him, still in her seat. He
would not move, he would not breathe until she turned to raise both wrists up
to his gaze, her fingers bunched into small fists, her naked wrists raised to
him, as if waiting for his manacles, begging for his handcuffs. And then she
would smile, coaxingly, into his eyes.
An adoring prisoner in her supplication, both upturned arms raised to the military
man standing within inches of them. And then the Major would drop to his knees,
holding each hand in his own, sucking on each fingertip. he would take his time, smoothing his lips across
the creamy skin and licking the soft veins of his bride's naked arms. Blindly reaching
for the bangles behind him, he would grab each handful, and ease each
glittering circle down his bride's fingers, his mouth, his lips and tongue
following every single bangle as she shuddered and trembled before him.
Pure lust,
warming his muscles, strengthening his reflexes, an honest fire in his gut was
his next pleasurable enemy. He wrestled the flooding sensation down,
knowing, by the darkening of her eyes that she felt it too. Her eyes would
capture his as he looked into them, touching her skin, feeling her soft
trembling reaction to his slow caresses as his fingertips traced patterns and
whorls into her arms. He would hear her breath quicken as he allowed his moustache to tickle the tender, exposed
skin that gleamed beneath her bangles, teasing him with its white, pearly glow.
He loved this moment, with her wrists under his lips as her eyes looked wild
and untamed, mirroring as strong a need for him as his fierce gaze did for her.
But part of their ritual was this denial, part of the ritual was this mutual
hunger, that simmered and yet went unanswered, at least at this moment. Because
the point of the gift was the smile, and that smile--- wavering, tender and filled with both longing
and delight brought him the kind of satiation no physical act ever could. His heart would do somersaults as he delayed the act of finishing his task for as long as he could.
Regret once the adorning was over flooded him every time, making him decide to buy her two dozen instead of one
in the future, three dozen, the time after that--- just to hold her wrist and her
fingers in his own clasp for a few minutes longer.
And then she would turn, gently disengaging his hands, flustered
as she tossed her long hair over her shoulders to graze his cheeks as he stood
up behind her. He would will himself to move, knowing that he could not, still
too aching, too stunned with love to step back from her just yet. And, as he
stared into her eyes, he would see her lift her wrists, jingling her bangles at
him, the sound washing over him as he stood, besotted, right behind her in the
mirror.
And then her smile, tinged with mischief would once again flash,
as she playfully pushed him back from her dressing table. Giggling softly at her
thunder-struck husband, she would dart out of the room, laughing, calling out
in a voice of suppressed joy for her sisters to come and see her latest gift from her Major Saab.
He would remember the promises he had made to himself, not so very long ago,
and a lifetime back. He was in absolute control over every aspect of his life,
but especially over himself, over his heart. He had been both totally right,
and devastatingly wrong. Because he was both in control, and rioting in chaos. Because
every aspect of his life, himself, his heart---was now, simply---her.
And then...he would smile.