Samsaara : Devadoot

To Play With Fire

She woke up soaked, with patches of sweat staining her clothes, breathing just slightly faster than usual. A fault in the power supply to her room caused her to wake up abruptly. Without the air-conditioning, the air in her room had become stale, smelling like an odd combination of sawdust and old clothes. She was forced to get out of the comfortable confines of her bed to crack the window open for circulation. As she moved, her long robe got displaced revealing her long slender legs adorned with scars and light stretch marks. They flowed down her beautiful hips, like rivers filled with experiences and growth. The same scars ached on cold winter nights, bringing back repressed memories of how she lost her father on that fateful day.

Paviraa looked out the narrow slit of the window and took a deep breath. Fresh air that is taken out of a rainforest through thousands of perennially open, microscopic Ethereal gates, that was supplied in Alkapuri, displaced the stale air inside. She rested her perfectly rounded haunches on the window sill and looked inside her dimly lit room. The room where memories of her parents kept alive through their belongings. Her mother was still alive, a doctor, she found her calling in healing underprivileged kids, perhaps a way of preserving her motherhood. Paviraa occasionally went and looked at her mother from a distance. She wondered if she would recognise her after so many years of her supposed death. Although she craved her mother's love, she had the responsibility to honour her father by becoming a great Guardian like him. She also wanted to protect her mother from the evils that she would have to face. Thus she accepted the burden of being an orphan when she wasn't one, all for the safety of her mother. While reminiscing of the old days, she touched her father's core that was nestled loosely between her bosoms, hung by a chain gifted by someone who was slowly pushing his way into her life. Although she was very young on the day her father died, the memories were clearly etched into her mind.

******

Her father was supposed to meet an old friend of his that day. Since her mother had to go to the hospital for an emergency call, Paviraa was left with her father. He decided to take her along since the meeting could not be avoided. They both sat on his scooter and drove towards the pre-decided meeting place. As her father sped through the road: to a two stroke scooter's best ability. A cat darted across the street and Zubair Noor, her father, had to veer the bike aggressively to save it. Unfortunately, Mumbai roads are not forgiving. The swerving bike met with a pothole and he lost balance. Both of them were flung on the road. Zubair was protected by his jeans and jacket but little Paviraa's frock offered little to no protection. A deep gash on her knee left Paviraa bleeding and bawling. Her father rushed to her as the cat trotted away nonchalantly. Zubair carried her to the nearest medical store and put his first aid skills to use. With a splash of hydrogen peroxide, a dab of antiseptic cream, some gauze and micro-pore tape the wound was dressed. The promise of a trip to the Water Park, pacified her crying.

Zubair drove a bit more conservatively and reached the decrepit building. They alighted and walked into the abandoned basement of the buildings. He was too late. He found his friend sprawled on the floor in a pool of his blood, with an obese woman in her 30s towering over him laughing hysterically. She held a riding crop or a whip of some sort, where the tip was weaved into a symmetrical knot. Like those found in the hands of deities in ruins of western India.