The interior was dark and lit up with lamps, lending an old-world charm to the place. He called out to her, his voice echoed. She did not answer. He made his way to the living room, lights and shadows playing hide and seek in dreamy corners of the charming house. He tumbled upon her discarded hijaab and followed the seductive trail of clothes; her saree, her petticoat, her blouse, her delicate lace panties and her bra was the last thing he picked up. Where the train ended, he saw her delicate foot, toe nails painted the colour of vibrant poppy fields. She stood like a flower, naked and ethereal at the doorway. Her full breast ached for his touch. She was even more beautiful than the last time he left her. Unable to speak, he went to her and tried to kiss her as she turned away.

‘You cancelled on my birthday…’ the husky voice wrenched his heart.

His mouth ached to feel her, he tried to kiss her again, but Rajjo turned her face away as she stood at the door. Harsh devoured the rest of her as she stood there suspended between pain and pleasure. She gasped and moaned, as Harsh tasted every bit of her; she was going to melt away standing right there and so was he. Before they could lose themselves, he filled her up with a thrust as she stood – backed up to the wall. Harsh lost himself in her softness. Time stretched and paused, ran forward and came back in a circle till he cried his release. This was it, his literature, his poetry, his freedom. With Rajjo he was the Harsh running in the fields barefoot, the wind caressing his face.

The colours of bougainvillea, sweet and alluring. With Rajjo the rain tasted syrupy.

‘Sorry,’ he muttered as he picked her up and tried to kiss her. She evaded him once more. She was a fiery childwoman in his arms, he knew she would not allow him to have her soul till he repented not meeting her till the last breath.

The blissful two days passed in a haze for Rajjo. Another night arrived with illuminated box kites strung on a line adorning the dark sky, celebrating love. Harsh stood on the terrace of the old house staring up at the sky, smoking his favourite brand of cigarette. ‘These are called Tukkals,’ he pointed to the kites in the sky adding the touch of splendour.