A girl named Grace

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.