-: Pancha Vastra :- ( By Shailu )

[shailu4ever]

 
The water sounds stop.
 
His pulse quickens involuntarily.
 
She'll emerge soon. Wet. Changed from sleep to wakefulness. Ready to,
 
He hears her humming.
 
The sound drifts through the morning like fragrance, like light. A melody he doesn't recognize, probably something passed down from her mother, from her grandmother, from generations of women humming while they prepared themselves for the day.
 
There's something unselfconscious about it. She doesn't know he can hear her. She's humming for herself, for the pleasure of sound, for the simple animal comfort of making music while alone.
 
It's the most intimate thing he's heard yet.
 
More intimate than if he'd actually seen her bathing.
 
Because she doesn't know he's listening. Doesn't know she's being witnessed. This is Meera with all her walls down, unperformed, real.
 
The humming stops.
 
He hears the soft sound of cloth moving against skin. She's drying herself. Dressing.
 
He should move away, give her the illusion of privacy even though the dwelling is small, even though there are no real walls.
 
But he stays frozen, listening, aware that he's already crossing boundaries, already learning her through attention she hasn't consented to give.
 
Forgive me, he thinks. I'm trying to be good. I'm trying to be patient. But everything about you makes me want to know more.
 
 
 
A few moments later, footsteps.
 
Soft, barefoot on earth, moving around the side of the dwelling.
 
He turns.
 
And his breath stops.
 
Meera emerges from behind the flowering vines like something out of myth.
 
Her hair is wet, unbraided, falling past her waist in dark ropes that drip water onto the uttariya dbangd across her shoulders. The indigo silk has darkened where the water touches it, creating patterns like continents on a map.
 
She's wearing all five Vastras, he can see them layered, the uttariya over everything, the pavadai beneath it shifting with her walk, the other garments hidden but present, creating the architecture of her form.
 
But her hair.
 
God, her hair.
 
He's only seen it braided before. Controlled. Contained.
 
Loose like this, it transforms her.
 
Makes her look younger, not the careful weaver, but something wilder. More elemental.
 
Water runs down the thick strands, gathers at the ends, drips onto her bare feet. She doesn't seem to notice or care. She walks toward the dwelling's small cooking area with the unselfconscious ease of someone completely alone.
 
Then she sees him.
 
Stops.
 
For a moment they just look at each other.