Finally...
I'm done with the Bollywood story. It's changed a lot from what it originally was - which is as it should be - and I'm a little happier with it. But, I think, mostly happy to have it finished =)
Anyway, this is for ladyorla and asgard.
Title: All She Needs
Fandom: Kabhi Kushi Kabhi Gham (K3G)
Rating: G
She had grown up enfolded within the rough energy of spiced streets, where fingers of poverty and grime streaked the sky with dust. Brightly dyed cotton and brass bangles masked tired buildings, age appearing quickly and inexorably in the hard-living nooks and crannies, wrinkled alleys and gnarled paint. The sun burned, monsoon dripped and abrasive grit smoothed away the burnished newness. And yet, though the gilt was a mere glint in time, there was a lush light of merriment that glanced off the edges of gold, reflecting in increasing intensity the richness that was there.
Every day she woke to mellow dawn, the rustle of her neighbours waking, the sound of song-prayers, and the scent of incense and warming spices. She dressed to the chiming of bangles and ate to the determined sizzle of sweets and curry. She moved through crowds of whispering silk, wreathed by the miniature fire of marigold and tracing of henna. She danced to the music that spilled from movie theatres and radios set on high shelves above the raucous hard-sell of shopkeepers. And she slept to the sighs of lonely crickets and the muted energy of a city ever on the verge of waking.
Then her father died, their mourning clothes turning from white to puce as the skies wailed and their grief became transparent. The flames of his pyre were delayed then slowly twisted, blurring into the marriage flames around which she was led into a new country.
It was a cold place, full of stark shadows and echoing spaces, occupied by a granite rage that confused her in it’s unyielding unfamiliarity. It was also England, where pale people with pale lives stared with pale eyes and judged with pale understanding. There was a darkness there that hung in shreds like the heavy pall of her father’s funeral pyre, and only a nepotistic warmth.
Then Rahul had brought Diwali home. From the boot of the car he unloaded boxes, setting them in the centre of the parlour and beckoned to her with gleaming eyes. Despite any suspicions she might have, she let him take her hand and draw her near, watching in amazement as he displayed a myriad of spices for sweets, marigolds and mango leaves, coloured powder, fireworks and diyas.
He laughed as she looked on in surprise and tickled the back of her neck with a kiss, linking his hands around her waist and telling her of a Diwali festival being held by the Indian Association.
Excited, and frustrated that she had little time to prepare, she spent the next day sweeping and scrubbing for necessary cleanliness before moving to the kitchen with Sayeeda for a frenzy of sweet-making. And the next day, dawn saw her drawing rangoli patterns in vermillion, turmeric and rice powder across the front step to welcome Lakshmi, hoping that she could find her way to such a foreign place.
The third day of Diwali found them, surrounded by faces burnt by fire under the skin, moving beneath garlands of marigolds and mango leaves hanging from doorways, into an English house that twinkled with hundreds of diyas and the laughter of a celebration that almost felt like home.
Dressed in her best clothing, unworn since leaving India, she was drawn forth, towards the floor where music danced hand in hand with the revelers, and she knew exactly where to be and how to move.
She was smiling, blood heated, when the first Bhajan was sung, and it thrummed in synchronous harmony with the pulse of her body. Rahul stood with her as they raised their own voices along with the steadily burning diyas as the night burst into effusive colour and frenetic good-will.
They returned later, to a dark house, full of unlit lamps. She stopped beneath marigold that hung in haunted tatters and felt drained.
As she stood, Rahul struck a match and it flared, sharp rays cutting through the smooth, still room. He carried it to the first lamp, a small clay diya standing beside the door and gently touched flame to wick.
Five more lamps now burned on a tray that was laden with flowers.
A row of eight lamps marched across the mantlepiece where a marble effigy of Lakshmi sat beneath a framed cotton print on which an elephant carried a rani towards a hilltop palace awash with monkeys.
Rahul lit the last of ten lamps on the coffee table where photographs of her family and his family sat before shaking the last of the matches out.
He moved in close and cupped her face in warm hands that smelt of fire and sulfur. Kissing her, he smiled.
And Anjali smiled back, seeing in him all that she needed of India.
A flourish performed with her old effervescence produced a tray, and a graceful half-skip brought her to stand before Rahul. She moved the tray in a liquid circle before him before dipping her smallest finger into vermillion and anointing her husband’s forehead with a tilak mark.
He nipped at her fingers as she fed him a sweet and prayed in a mumble, grinning right along with him.
Mouth still curved, she suddenly spoke clearly.
"We should go back to India." She put the tray down and drew him towards the doorway that would lead to their bedroom. "It is the greatest country in the world and the Diwali celebrations are much better."
Rahul was all she needed of India, but he wasn’t all she wanted.
Notes: Research on Diwali done here.
Anyway, this is for ladyorla and asgard.
Title: All She Needs
Fandom: Kabhi Kushi Kabhi Gham (K3G)
Rating: G
She had grown up enfolded within the rough energy of spiced streets, where fingers of poverty and grime streaked the sky with dust. Brightly dyed cotton and brass bangles masked tired buildings, age appearing quickly and inexorably in the hard-living nooks and crannies, wrinkled alleys and gnarled paint. The sun burned, monsoon dripped and abrasive grit smoothed away the burnished newness. And yet, though the gilt was a mere glint in time, there was a lush light of merriment that glanced off the edges of gold, reflecting in increasing intensity the richness that was there.
Every day she woke to mellow dawn, the rustle of her neighbours waking, the sound of song-prayers, and the scent of incense and warming spices. She dressed to the chiming of bangles and ate to the determined sizzle of sweets and curry. She moved through crowds of whispering silk, wreathed by the miniature fire of marigold and tracing of henna. She danced to the music that spilled from movie theatres and radios set on high shelves above the raucous hard-sell of shopkeepers. And she slept to the sighs of lonely crickets and the muted energy of a city ever on the verge of waking.
Then her father died, their mourning clothes turning from white to puce as the skies wailed and their grief became transparent. The flames of his pyre were delayed then slowly twisted, blurring into the marriage flames around which she was led into a new country.
It was a cold place, full of stark shadows and echoing spaces, occupied by a granite rage that confused her in it’s unyielding unfamiliarity. It was also England, where pale people with pale lives stared with pale eyes and judged with pale understanding. There was a darkness there that hung in shreds like the heavy pall of her father’s funeral pyre, and only a nepotistic warmth.
Then Rahul had brought Diwali home. From the boot of the car he unloaded boxes, setting them in the centre of the parlour and beckoned to her with gleaming eyes. Despite any suspicions she might have, she let him take her hand and draw her near, watching in amazement as he displayed a myriad of spices for sweets, marigolds and mango leaves, coloured powder, fireworks and diyas.
He laughed as she looked on in surprise and tickled the back of her neck with a kiss, linking his hands around her waist and telling her of a Diwali festival being held by the Indian Association.
Excited, and frustrated that she had little time to prepare, she spent the next day sweeping and scrubbing for necessary cleanliness before moving to the kitchen with Sayeeda for a frenzy of sweet-making. And the next day, dawn saw her drawing rangoli patterns in vermillion, turmeric and rice powder across the front step to welcome Lakshmi, hoping that she could find her way to such a foreign place.
The third day of Diwali found them, surrounded by faces burnt by fire under the skin, moving beneath garlands of marigolds and mango leaves hanging from doorways, into an English house that twinkled with hundreds of diyas and the laughter of a celebration that almost felt like home.
Dressed in her best clothing, unworn since leaving India, she was drawn forth, towards the floor where music danced hand in hand with the revelers, and she knew exactly where to be and how to move.
She was smiling, blood heated, when the first Bhajan was sung, and it thrummed in synchronous harmony with the pulse of her body. Rahul stood with her as they raised their own voices along with the steadily burning diyas as the night burst into effusive colour and frenetic good-will.
They returned later, to a dark house, full of unlit lamps. She stopped beneath marigold that hung in haunted tatters and felt drained.
As she stood, Rahul struck a match and it flared, sharp rays cutting through the smooth, still room. He carried it to the first lamp, a small clay diya standing beside the door and gently touched flame to wick.
Five more lamps now burned on a tray that was laden with flowers.
A row of eight lamps marched across the mantlepiece where a marble effigy of Lakshmi sat beneath a framed cotton print on which an elephant carried a rani towards a hilltop palace awash with monkeys.
Rahul lit the last of ten lamps on the coffee table where photographs of her family and his family sat before shaking the last of the matches out.
He moved in close and cupped her face in warm hands that smelt of fire and sulfur. Kissing her, he smiled.
And Anjali smiled back, seeing in him all that she needed of India.
A flourish performed with her old effervescence produced a tray, and a graceful half-skip brought her to stand before Rahul. She moved the tray in a liquid circle before him before dipping her smallest finger into vermillion and anointing her husband’s forehead with a tilak mark.
He nipped at her fingers as she fed him a sweet and prayed in a mumble, grinning right along with him.
Mouth still curved, she suddenly spoke clearly.
"We should go back to India." She put the tray down and drew him towards the doorway that would lead to their bedroom. "It is the greatest country in the world and the Diwali celebrations are much better."
Rahul was all she needed of India, but he wasn’t all she wanted.
Notes: Research on Diwali done here.