Of Unbrushed Hair and He Who Stands in Grandeur

Photograph by Anamitra Ray

My sister is winging a sharp eyeliner

She paces frantically back and forth in between —

Brushing her hair, caressing and ironing the black floral wrap dress

The one with the little white peonies engraved on, that she loves so much

She tells me she’s not to put on a lot of blush

Upon enquiring, she says her fiancé doesn’t like it—though she does.

My sister takes out all of her finest brushes and her best colours- peach, lilac, purple, pink, yellow一

But when she paints him, she uses her most expensive glitters and gold instead

Eyes fixed on the portrait, she traces the edges absentmindedly一

Says, he promised to have her name carved into the stars in the night sky and the moon

would cast her silver light in her honour.

She hangs the portrait in her room, on the wall facing her bed

She then goes on to stitch the tapestry of a scene一

Of embroidered wildflowers on an ocean green surface

The frayed edges of which now carry the weight of her diluted dreams

Each golden thread that lines the flowers glisten一 not in glory but in chains.

Says, somewhere along the way, some silenced agency seems to have set the tone and

stage for the air she once danced in

My sister now all decked up in Phanek

No longer brushes her hair like that

There’s no more blush lying around in her cupboard

The portrait is nowhere to be seen

Runs back and forth in between buffing the floors till they beam and attending a crying baby

All on her own.

When I enquire, she shoots me a long sharp look from the corner of her eyes,

A momentary look of contemplation of the reality she’s in

Her gaze lingers, for a moment there, almost unreadable一before vanishing altogether

And this time, under the sunlit room, she shushes me.