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The winter sun glossed Maira’s blue saree as she silently sauntered into the courtyard of Agniv Mahal. With her head held high, she gently sat on the stone steps as the mahal workers moved briskly, tending to their daily chores. Having witnessed many a story over the years, the mahal’s ancient doors were always kept open, making way for liquid sunshine to flow in and bathe its intricate carvings every morning.
Perched on the mahal steps, Maira had waited in the same place for months on end now. Every morning, she would greet the workers in her elegant blue saree, before settling down and soaking in the melody of the birdsong that came by from the nearby hills. But hidden under all her elegance, was a silent heartache, very much in contrast to the bright sunlight that streamed through the doors and windows. And today was no different. Amidst the early morning hustle and bustle of the mahal, Maira’s heart secretly yearned, that her wait would soon come to an end
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A short story for a good read
Every day, as she sat, she reminisced of a time long spent but not forgotten. Five years ago, when Agniv Mahal still heard the thudding from the gates being shut each night, somebody had knocked the door. Maira had grabbed her kerosene lamp and made the journey to the entrance, half agitated and half curious. She was an old soul like that, deeply in love with supple sarees, archaic wooden doors and windows, and of course, her soothing marigolds.
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As she sprung open the door, she was amused to find no one at the door. At her doorstep, she found an envelope carefully crafted from a handmade paper, sealed with shimmery wax.
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“In years of passing by this house, I have loved you. I have loved the scent of your marigolds, the crackling of your gramophone, the chiming of your anklets as you walk. When the time is right, perhaps a month from now, perhaps when we’re old, I wish to love you from near.”
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Shiny tears rolled down Maira’s eyes. A lover of love, she had finally found someone who admired everything that she loved. And without having to give it a second thought, she began the waiting.
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Seasons have passed ever since. The moon has waned and waxed hundreds of times, the mango tree has surpassed the walls of the house. And still, every day, she waits. She believes he will come in a bright hour this time. And this time, he will not leave.
Maira’s wait ensued in the blooming frontyard of the Agniv Mahal, like it had for years. With each passing sunrise, the walls of the house withstood ruthless sandstorms, prickly winters, and sultry summers. But through them all, Maira’s heart remained untarnished.
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And although she relentlessly waited for her true love that blossomed through the mysterious letter, her first love would always be that little girl who was everyone’s favourite, Maira herself. You see, back when she was a child, still bubbling with naive wonderment and bouts of untamed laughter, her father would pick her up in her arms as she ran back home after school every day. Tickling her and raising her high up in the air, he would ask, “who is the most beautiful of them all?”
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And little Maira would pretend to be clueless, giggling under her breath, “is it Maa? Grandma?”. The tickles would only intensify until she finally said her own name, looking at her father with all the joy she could muster.
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Thus, flooded with unconditional love throughout her childhood, Maira still radiated the same confidence and love for herself. And although she longed for company, each time the sun shone on Agniv Mahal, Maira loved herself and her life a little more, adorning her most suave sarees, playing with the marigolds, or dancing with the peacocks that graced the gardens of the Mahal.
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