It has been a year now that Sekhar had been away from his hometown, his family, his little daughter...The gentle touch of a tree branch brushed his cheeks past through the broken window of the old and creeky bus running to his hometown in Banihal. Sekhar worked as a travelling correspondent at a small company. He had to go on small trips to market his products, run around to make his life.
He rested his forehead against the thick window bars of the bus and remembered how his five-year-old Meena grabbed around his neck and refused to let him go this time when the company letter came in asking him to go to Srinagar. Meena had come to their life only after fifteen years of marriage. Each time he had to go, she would cry her lungs out, and then he would calm her down with promises to bring her the beautiful Calla lilies She admired the most. The smile that then appeared on her face with cute dimples could even melt a heart of stone.
The whistle of the bus conductor brought Sekhar back from his memories. He got down from the bus. It was already autumn in Banihal. Trees stood bare but bright. A dark leaf took a swift down and rested on his shoulder. He held the bunch of lilies he had bought to his chest and walked slowly.
Sekhar saw his wife waiting for him at their door from a distance. He took short and slow steps like a little child learning to walk, just too slow to delay something. He bent down slowly and placed the small bunch of Calla lilies on a small, fresh pile of sand near his house. He turned back suddenly and a small drop of tear fell from his eyes. Someone told him once, "Calla lilies symbolise death."
By Anagha Krishna
II BA. Communicative English
Pic credits: google images