She would sit there, in the corner, on the stool, imploring the walls, like a rock raped by the sea. Her countenance betrayed nothing of the storm inside. You could have sketched a gentle smile of those lips or even a pool of blood. A salwar kurta would drape her body, like a funeral cloth.

On sunny days the curtains were spread. The lights, escaping through the fluttering slits, would die on her still face. Playing, as if they were, hide and seek, with nothing to hide and nothing to seek. Momentarily they managed to spot a curve or two of the painting on the wall. It held her breath, as the name was hers. Left abandoned, the curves craved to make sense.

On rainy days she would not look outside, but at the windowpane. Tears rolled down one after another until the soulless glass was washed and clean. And there was a time when it had a soul which could reflect and could be broken. The lamp in the corner was lit as evening came home, casting a spell on the settled gloom.

The evenings, themselves, did well to hold the stillness intact, like prostitutes on an empty street. The clock, having worked its way through the day, signaled the bedspreads to change. Like a ghost on a sleep walk, she would make the bed and spread the table. And, then, inertia would again take over, like a triumphant tyrant, ordering her to wait.

The bell would then ring, like a reminder of an unsung destiny. The clock would stop making a mockery of time. The lamp would give way to the pretentious light. The curtains would dutifully cover the obscurity. The painting would remain hung. And the doors would open for him to come.

There was a time when doors were open for her…