234
Prose
Dance of colors
Rupali Kathal
The air carried the scent of moist soil and dirt. The night was an unfinished puzzle with two loose ends.
On one side stood poor Fathima, gazing beyond the soaked leaves of a tree from her balcony, and sighed. Orange-tinted streetlights illuminated the empty roads and dark balconies of Delhi.
Varun, a few meters away from the balcony and the sighing females, stared at his laptop screen. It was 2 am, and the meeting with clients had been extended for another hour. He placed his half-empty cup of coffee on the table and rubbed his eyes. A mild pain throbbed in the back of his head as he closed his eyes. The burning sensation was almost pleasant by this point, serving as a futile attempt to combat the numbness overtaking his body.
His empty stomach tempted him to take a stroll to the corner shop, but his tired fingers ended up on the red app on his screen.
The winds were soothing, allowing the unhindered sway of leaves despite being chained to the hardened trunk — a fleeting moment of unblemished happiness, a sliver of freedom. Dangling on the edge of the hill, longing for a taste of Euphoria. Fathima sipped momentary peace with the corner shop coffee bought by the man from the red app.
Fate left a hint of disappointment behind, which they both felt deep in the pit of their stomachs.
She dreamt of the open sky that day, its purple shade illuminated by the night. The clouds wore a dirty shade of white, reminiscent of the pages of old books, and the scent of moist dirt.
The next day, Fathima and Varun passed the same trees and lanes, and sat through the throng of grimacing corporate slaves, swimming through a similar sea of self-doubt and battling the waves of nihilism.
The sky in Varun’s dream was orange, and clouds wore invisibility cloaks. An unknown artist stripped the tangerine peel of its hue and painted it on the blank canvas.
Today, destiny was adamant about playing its hand. The crowded luncheon room forced them to sit at the corner table. She smoothed the corner of her orange sweater. He adjusted his purple-rimmed spectacles, though his purple eyes remained fixed on the figures dancing on the small screen, drowning out thoughts of fear and loneliness. Meanwhile, her orange smile remained hidden behind the huge laptop, lost in stories of strangers falling in love, praying for her romance in painful anticipation.
The god of destiny sighed in defeat yet again.