That
silhoutte. The perfectly curved dome-like structure on top, with the intricate
carvings relieved her soul. The breeze from the windows in the chatri
blew across her heart. Every evening, everything was the same, the same orange
sky, the same black outline of the chatri, the same beautiful girl
pirouetting to the beats of her ghungroos, and the same woman who came
to see them each day.
She had
been visiting the City Palace every evening since the past 10 years, just to
witness the luminescent sun disappear into the folds of clouds, and to watch
the rustic old chatri turn a dull black from the effervescent brown. The
bright orange sky turned into a blinding black, just like jovial youth turning
into the setting old age.
A girl as
beautiful as Grace herself, came every evening to pour her heart out by swaying
her elegant limbs. Her hands touched the wind as gently as a mother touched her
child. Her feet, with the ghungroos, let out a sound as beautiful as
Krishna’s flute itself. Even the dark setting sun, the radiance of the adas
on her face shone as bright as Surya devta himself The tunes of her ghungroo,
settled in her magn man, and her immersed soul spoke to her
body through her dance steps. Her grace was immortal, timeless and
ever-lasting. It would go on to stay in her soul forever.
The wheelchair creaked. The old lady was brought back to reality as her
wrinkled cheeks became wet with her teardrops. Her grace persisted, but her
youth had died. She was no longer her past. The girl dancing in the chatri every
evening, was her, yet not her. Her physical beauty had now died, she could no
longer sway her limbs and dance to the beats of her ghungroo. Her charming
young self was now dead. Youth wasn’t immortal, timeless and ever-lasting like
her grace. But she still came every evening. For she knew, that the girl only
she saw every evening dancing in the chatri, was her. She may not be the
luscious, enticing beauty she once was, but she was still graceful and
dedicated. There were wrinkles on her face, but none in her soul. Her life was like a ghungroo,
and its beads were now rusted. They were gradually falling off, taking a piece
of her soul with them. But she still
remained the dancer she once was, and danced every single evening in her own
thoughts.
