THE WAITING
An aged banyan tree stands tall, its countless branches heavy with leaves—some dried, some green, some yellow. Some leaves are about to fall, others cling longer to life. The density of the tree makes it hard for the sunlight and raindrops to reach the ground under it. The strong aerial roots hang from the tree to the ground. It looks like the aerial roots are the pillars for the tree, which give support to the aged banyan tree from falling. Opposite the aged tree is a serene lake. The pure water reflects the blue of the sky. On its surface float lotus flowers, their broad leaves spread like green plates. The colour of these gives feast to the eyes. Besides the aged banyan tree stand the identical houses. These houses are forming a line, as if they are carefully placed one after another.The walls are made of sundried mud; the roof is thatched with dried coconut leaves, which are tightly tied over bamboo frames. When the wind blows, the thatched roof rustles with a sound sweet to the ear.
The seven identical houses are built with two simple rooms, one window, and an old wooden door. Like the small houses, the belongings in the houses are also few. Each house contains: a woven mat to sleep on, a small stack of folded clothes, faded bangles in an old iron box, a plate and tumbler to eat and drink, and an earthen pot filled with water. Still, the new house lacks the most important element for living—anything for cooking—there’s no trace of a stove, firewood, cooking pots, or vegetables. There is no scent of spices, the smoky smell in the air that comes at the time of cooking. There is no trace of men in the houses. Each house has only the essentials of women and at the end of the houses is a small bathroom. Each house has only one woman and all seven shares the single small bathroom.
Every woman’s culture looks different; they are from different places, and one doesn’t know another before they come to this house. Their clothes reveal their origin. One wears the saree pleat on her right and another one wears the saree pleat on her left shoulder. The woman with the saree pleat tucked on her right shoulder covers her head with the end of her saree. The woman with the pleat on her left shoulder doesn’t cover her face or hair. A younger woman wears a skirt and top, her head is covered with a long shawl. Another tall woman with her long braid tied in a bun wears madisaar, the saree wrapped in the discipline of tradition.
Despite the variety in their dressing, their expressions are the same. Their faces are pools of sadness. Their eyes express their emotions; they long for someone to save them. They are prisoners without chains. Their eyes always search not for a visitor, but for hope. They pray every day though they know they can’t be saved. They don’t speak much; there are no other people to speak to. They have to speak to themselves only. They never laugh, they forgot how to laugh once they were caged here. They never sing, not even a sad song. They’re afraid their voice may attract other men. Their joy, their life has been robbed away from them. They were once full of life, but now these angels have fallen into hell where their purity and respect are never a concern. Among these caged angels is a woman with the look of a goddess named Malli. She is bright like the flower of her name. She drapes her saree pleat on her left shoulder. Her face carries the calm grace of a goddess, yet her eyes tell another story. In the glow-filled face, the sorrow-filled eyes refuse to hide the sadness.
Malli sits on the steps of one of the houses which are allocated to her. Her head rests on the door frame, and her gaze is fixed on the lake, as if she searches for the answer in the water. Unlike the others, she hasn’t lost her hope completely. There is something within her that still survives, something that keeps her hope from fading. She doesn’t shout, doesn’t fight, and doesn’t try to run away. She waits in silence, holding on to the hope that he’ll save her. Malli’s gaze deepens in the lake, her thoughts wandering about her abduction, the shouts she hears every night. She forgets how many days she has been here. Days pass, weeks pass, even months. In a way, she is lucky—she has not yet been taken to the cruel place of death. She forgets the date and day. The sun rises and sets, but nothing changes except the growing grief in every woman. She lives in a loop of silent agony and waiting.
A sudden shrieking noise breaks her gaze with the lake. Monkeys, a whole group of them, rush from the tree. They grab the flower garland which is thrown by an old man; a sudden fight breaks out among them—loud, wild, and restless. They snatch garlands from one another’s hands. They start to bite and pull one another, tear apart the delicate flowers in their anger. More monkeys start to come down from the branches above, their screeches filling the air. Within a few moments, the garlands are gone, reduced to nothing. The blossoms in the garland fall on the ground, in the dirt. Each monkey grabs a few blossoms and runs off. Some of them sit on the lakeside and others scramble back into the banyan tree. Soon the monkeys’ play turns cruel—they bite, crush, and beat the flowers. They press the flowers hard into the mud, shredding the petals with their sharp nails. The once beautiful and fragrant flower is quickly turned into pulp, crushed, and destroyed.
After seeing this scene Malli’s heart is frozen, her chest tightens. It aches to think about her condition—she’ll be crushed just like the flowers. A new desire strikes the monkeys, their gazes shift. They have noticed something different, something brighter—the lotuses. In the center of the lake, lotuses float on the surface of the water, glowing in the light of the sun. Some lotuses are still in the budding stage while some are fully blown blossoms. They remain peaceful; they don’t bother about the chaos on the road. They’re peaceful, protected by the water in the lake. The monkeys move closer to the edge of the lake. Their greed-filled eyes are fixed on the lotuses. But to their surprise they couldn’t reach it. They tried hard, but the distance was great. The lake shields its treasures. For now, the lotuses remain beyond their reach, safe in the stillness of the water. Malli breathes in relief. The flowers are safe at least for now. But she knows this peace will not last. Soon, the flower pickers will come. They’ll pluck the lotuses from their watery home, tear them away from the sun they love, and offer them to the gods in temples or for other uses. Once they are no longer needed, once their beauty has been used, the monkeys will get to them; and like the garlands, the lotuses will be crushed. Malli’s chest tightens, the thought is too painful. She gets up from the place and walks into the house without turning her head to see the monkeys. The house is dim and dull, even the house doesn’t hold any liveliness. She lies on her old mat; she starts to stare at the ceiling made of coconut leaves. Her thoughts drift away to a story told by an old grandma; a story that comforts her, a story that reflects her own hidden pain. Malli remembers the tale of the lotus and the sun; it’s a tale of impossible love.
One bright sunny morning, a lotus blooms, its soft pink petals slowly unfurling, trembling because of the fear of seeing the world. It lifts her face shyly toward the sky. The lotus has carried the love and warmth of the sun for so long. So when the flower opens it’s not just bloom, it’s a confession. Each petal glows in his light, they look like they have been painted by his own hands. The sun has watched countless flowers bloom and wither but her confession attracts him, he finds himself still. For the first time in his heavenly journey, he forgets to move. His brilliance dims with her enchantment. He has seen countless beauties before, but never seen a beauty like her. The lotus is not simply blooming, she’s reaching for him, calling to him, surrendering to him. A strange ache fills the sun, one he has never known. He is too high, too far, destined always to look down from the skies. Yet, as her petals open wider, he longs—not to shine upon her from above, but to be near her, to feel her breath of cool water and the tender silence of her lake. He has seen stars and galaxies, but nothing has ever made his heart pause. The lotus, simple and beautiful, opens only for him.
Every morning, he gives her his light. And every day, she blooms in return. Their love flourishes in silence. There are no declarations, no embraces—only the quiet bond knit into every sunrise and every bloom. The lotus opens because she trusts him. The sun rises each morning because he longs to see her face. The world is never gentle with love that is pure. The Winds whisper, “She blooms only for him.” The Clouds murmur, “The Sun no longer watches us.” And Time, cold and jealous, warns, “This cannot last.” Yet the Sun and the Lotus endure. She opens her petals only when he rises, and when he fades, she folds herself once more, waiting with patience and faith for his return. In a warm evening, the sky turns crimson and the sun prepares to leave, she looks sad.
The sun asks her, “Why do you close when I go?”
The lotus with her soft voice whispers to him, as if she’s afraid others will hear her, “Because the world feels too empty without you.”
The sun longs to go down to her, to hold her; but he knew if he comes too close he will burn her. She knows if she rises to reach him, she’ll die in his fire. Their love can never be physical. Yet, it is real. They love without touch. They speak without words. They belong to each other in the light. The legend says the lotus blooms only for the sun. She folds herself once he fades, not from fear, but from longing. She firmly believes that no matter what he’ll return for her. Malli blinks back tears. This story of the sun and lotus returns to her mind again and again and refuses to fade. She finds herself hidden in the journey of the lotus—its silence, its devotion. The lotus has a quiet strength to believe in an impossible love. Her smile is the faintest, her heart aching with a sorrow too heavy to bear. The ache is softened by an unexpected fullness, a strange peace. She can understand the lotus’s feeling, now it’s not a distant tale, but a reflection of her own soul. She is the lotus. Though her hope is fragile, it rises every day, even in the shadows of despair. She has petals too; her waiting, silent resistance, her longing that refuses to disappear is the petals of her. Even though the world may crush, tear, and pluck at her, she continues to bloom; because blooming is her only truth.
Malli’s love is the same as the lotus’s love—pure, patient, and eternal. She knows the man she loves can’t reach her and she can’t reach the man she loves. She opens again and again for him until he returns. Malli lies motionless on her mat; her eyes close to protect the fragile dream of hers. The wind stirs the thatched roof of the house, whispering a lullaby. Outside the house, the banyan tree stands watching the scene, as it does every day. Its roots hold the secrets of centuries within them. The lake glimmers—soft, silver, and eternal. She listens to the quiet, to the wind. Her breath rises and falls, and the weight pressing on her chest feels lighter for a moment.
The story of the Lotus and the un lingers in her mind. It makes her sorrow lighter and boosts her strength. A single lotus sways in the ripples waiting. That is her strength. That is her choice. That is her love. In the silent village, beneath the shadow of the banyan, with the water gently singing to the sky, Malli continues to unfurl—for him, for love, and for the faint promise of light, for the promise of the man of her dreams.
