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Recently I've moved into a new house. So while I was de-cluttering I came across this diary-o-mine which has been with me for ages now. As I was leafing through it, I chanced upon this story of a 22 year old who used to cook for me when I was posted in Bangalore; Nikhat Rehman she was called. Nikhat used to work her days off as a pantry maid for a Bank and in the evenings she used to cook for me. Nikhat had a strange appetite for distinction and emergence, she'll come out of the cocoon and grow into a beautiful butterfly someday she'd say. I loved her for she was in many ways a reflection of me.
Nikhat had a story. I never saw her as satiated as she looked the day when she poured out her heart to me and served me a platter full of her life for a meal. It was then that I'd decided to play the raconteur for her for her story deserves public acclaim and her life demands appurtenance.
Nikhat had a story. I never saw her as satiated as she looked the day when she poured out her heart to me and served me a platter full of her life for a meal. It was then that I'd decided to play the raconteur for her for her story deserves public acclaim and her life demands appurtenance.
As fate had it for her Nikhat lost her husband when she was 20. Yakub Hasan was an intercity taxi driver who met with a fatal accident en route one of his journeys homewards. The exuberant, bubbly, chirpy Nikhat was now reduced to a vapid widow.
"Don't overdress, stay black clad", instructed her assumedly well wishing khala, her only pivot in being. Nikhat followed the societal norms that were too stringent for a 20 yr old, so at times she purposely faltered, she would wear scarlet lipstick behind closed doors and try on the racy lingerie that Yakub had bought for her. For hours she would adore her image and sleep contentedly that night.
In their one year of attachment, they lived life in its entirety. Yakub was a level headed, dependable, strikingly attractive man and Nikhat was a compelling beauty. They would dress up for social gatherings, proudly check themselves out in the mirror, their appearances a reinforcement of their being a heaven-sent couple would appease them beyond measures. At the parties they would be flooded with compliments and whenever their eyes struck each other’s the corners of their mouths would curve up to bring out a beaming smile and a gleam of pride in their unflinching gaze. After returning they kissed passionately, the kiss that opened all the flood gates, a kiss that kindled yearnings. They writhed in unison, rhythmically as if riding a tide. She demanded and he served without judging her, they looked into each other’s eyes, the look had streaks of passion, love, commitment and comfort. She fitted like a dream in the nook of his arm and his tender embrace would do away with the tedium and vehemence that usually features in every couple’s lives. Such was their love, of support, of consolation, of relief, of compassion and encouragement was their story.
Yakub’s death turned Nikhat into a mere dreary, somber frame of a woman. The world buried Yakub but she continued to live with his ghost.
"Don't overdress, stay black clad", instructed her assumedly well wishing khala, her only pivot in being. Nikhat followed the societal norms that were too stringent for a 20 yr old, so at times she purposely faltered, she would wear scarlet lipstick behind closed doors and try on the racy lingerie that Yakub had bought for her. For hours she would adore her image and sleep contentedly that night.
In their one year of attachment, they lived life in its entirety. Yakub was a level headed, dependable, strikingly attractive man and Nikhat was a compelling beauty. They would dress up for social gatherings, proudly check themselves out in the mirror, their appearances a reinforcement of their being a heaven-sent couple would appease them beyond measures. At the parties they would be flooded with compliments and whenever their eyes struck each other’s the corners of their mouths would curve up to bring out a beaming smile and a gleam of pride in their unflinching gaze. After returning they kissed passionately, the kiss that opened all the flood gates, a kiss that kindled yearnings. They writhed in unison, rhythmically as if riding a tide. She demanded and he served without judging her, they looked into each other’s eyes, the look had streaks of passion, love, commitment and comfort. She fitted like a dream in the nook of his arm and his tender embrace would do away with the tedium and vehemence that usually features in every couple’s lives. Such was their love, of support, of consolation, of relief, of compassion and encouragement was their story.
Yakub’s death turned Nikhat into a mere dreary, somber frame of a woman. The world buried Yakub but she continued to live with his ghost.
