Malligai

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Malligai

Every home, in Malligai's opinion, must have a window that looks out onto the city. It seems as though every wooden window is a doorway to what was, what might have been, and what is now ahead. The town beyond becomes a mirror for her, a reflection of all those myriad choices that brought her to this moment. It reminded her of a version of herself she had outgrown long ago. Her untamed strands were engulfed by the wind that carried every tale from the city's corners, allowing them to run amok as if in pursuit of their own memories even while she tried to secure them in a tight tie. Selva always liked her hair untied. Were her wild strands also in tune with his unspoken preferences? It was as if the wind had suddenly taken on the scent of Selva.

It’s been three years, and it has not been easy. Well, it was never easy.

Malligai picked up the cigarette but fell beside the window. A habit she started with Selva. Selva is now gone, but the habit persists, swallowing her alive.

Perhaps the small habits they leave with us are what we call love.

Perhaps this love is meant to consume her as a whole, too.

And nothing persists after death but love.

The artist outside her flat tells Malligai that she has all the time in the world to finish her painting. And so does everyone else.

Death, in an unfinished work of art, was not a harsh conclusion but rather a lingering question. Life, like the unfinished painting, was a work in progress, waiting for the artist to get the courage to finish it, one brushstroke at a time.

Why didn't Selva finish his painting?

Did he run out of all the colors he could use?

A glimpse of Selva on the stairs left Malligai's world frozen in time, like a fleeting eternity.

She felt an insatiable need for his presence, a longing so strong that she would brave any storm to have another glance at him.

Malligai danced through the stairs, hoping to find Selva again and tell him everything she wished she had three years ago.

As Malligai finally reached Selva, she was taken aback by a strange metamorphosis she found in him.

His demeanor bore the weight of indifference.

He looked at her as if he knew that she too would follow the winding trail he had laid before her. She must have read the diary.

Gone were the sparks that once danced in his eyes upon seeing her; instead, there was only a silent reminder of what was, what might have been, and what now lay between them, unspoken and heavy with melancholy.

Just like the city outside Malligai's wooden windows.