I remember the afternoon. From time to time the rain would slacken, then a gust of wind would madden it again. It was a dark inside the room. I took my instrument in my hand and began a monsoon song in the mode of Mallar.
She came out of the next room and came just upto the door. Then she went back. Once more she came and stood outside the door. After that she slowly came in and sat down. She had some sewing in her hand; with her head lowered she kept working at it. Later she stopped sewing and sat looking at the blurred trees outside the window.
The rain slowed, my song came to end. She got up and went to braid her hair.
Nothing but this. Just one afternoon twined with rain and song and idling and darkness.
Stories of king and wars are cheaply scattered in history. But a tiny fragment of an afternoons story stays hidden in time`s box like a rare jewel. Only two people know of it.
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