Mascara

The last thing she does before she gets ready to die once more, of violation, she applies the mascara. Always, in that last and solemn moment the call-girl hesitates. With eye-catching eyes she stops to shudder. Maybe, the dyed eyes mourn her body’s sins. Mascara. . . it serves to tell her that long buried hazy dreams of a virgin soul have dark outlines. Silently she cries. Her tears are black. Like her. Somewhere Long Ago in an untraceable mangled matrilineal family tree of temple prostitutes, her solace was sought. It has happened for centuries. . . Empty consolations soothe violated bodies. Sex clings to her devadasi skin, assumed superficialities don’t wear off, Deliverance doesn’t arrive. Unknown Legacies of Love made to Gods haven’t been ceremoniously accounted as karma. But still she prays. Her prayer words desperately provoke Answers. Fighting her case, Providence lost his pride. Her helplessness doesn’t Seduce the Gods. And they too never learn the Depth of her Dreams. She believes— Cosmetics were once. . . War paints. She awaits their resurrection. When she dons the mascara The Heavens have heard her whisper, Kali, you wear this too. . . (First published in Indian Horizons)