Ceaseless winds blew from the hills in the west as they played with my faded black hair. I gently pushed them behind my ear as I finished penning down a story about how two lovers met in my city, Jaipur. My silvery skin complimented my white bangles and kurta-salwar. I pushed my spectacles to my nose and looked up to realise that the sun had begun to set behind the Amer Fort, which looked so much more grand from this chhatri which I sit in everyday. Hues of golden, orange and pink danced on the cool surface of the lake below the fort. This reminded me of the day when the end had begun. It almost feels like it happened just yesterday while in reality, it must have been years, a couple of them. My story is far from perfect but this is how it goes. One summer afternoon in March, when colours were being thrown around everywhere, my friends shook me awake as I dozed off into my deep slumber. “It’s Holi, Prachi! When are you ever going to stop sleeping? Gulp that Thandai down and let’s have some fun!”
A couple hours later, everything around me started to spin and the voices of people started dying out. The ‘Rang Barse’ song, which was bursting out of the speaker, began fading. I felt disgusted and life seemed to feel colourless despite all of this colour on my skin and kurta. How could they do this to me? Those reckless monsters. Pain gripped me tight and I couldn’t get myself to speak, let alone shout for help.
A blanket of numbness choked me down till I was breathless and fresh, red marks of strong fingers stung my delicate wrists. I lay on the roadside, fazed by the sheer atrocity those men had shown, until they reappeared and threw me into their lorry. Where were they going to take me? The lorry door had popped open, and I realised that the sun had already touched the horizon. Hues of golden, orange and pink filled the sky. I looked around to find myself on the hill top. Before I could shout, they tossed my body down from the prettiest chhatri on this hill facing the Amer Fort.
The evening Aazaan blared out from the old speakers of the mosque. I am at peace now, although my dreams of becoming a writer were crushed with my body when I was killed on this very hill many years ago. My white kurti still has those stains of bright Gulaal and Crimson Red blood. My throat still burns with the Thandai, the venom, those snakes choked me on, Yet, I feel far from revengeful, as I sit in the shade of this chhatri, trying to live life after death.
We are sorry that this post was not useful for you!
Let us improve this post!
Tell us how we can improve this post?