Wonder What This One Is

Another sunny and sweaty noon traffic intersection. The honking of the horns, the yelling, and cursing of the drivers and the blistering sun was getting to her. She looked outside her car. A sweat bead trickled down to her eye. She cursed under her breath instinctively. The traffic seemed to be at a permanent standstill. She rolled up her windows and turned the air condition on. She tried to pull her sari up. She cursed again thinking about why fate has made her wear that sari that day. She loved the concept of it because of tradition but wearing it herself is another story. She’s thirty five and she still wears casual jeans and loose shirts, which she knows cause a lot of stir at her work place. She’s sure she won't be able to reach her office on time. Her appointment is at two. She thought she will get out of her house at twelve and since it will take her at most an hour to reach her work, everything would be fine. Impatiently she turned her wrist and looked at her watch. It was one of those humongous digital men watches according to her best friend. She didn’t really care about it. Except she was quite aware of the fact that the watch did not really go with the body-sticking sweaty synthetic sari she has donned on. Her hair was loose, she tried to make a bun out of it with her hand, but as usual it didn’t work out. Her hair like her seemed to be of a disobedient mass sticking out to rebel for an unknown cause. She groped through her newly organized purse for a hair band or a scrunchy. And of course it wasn’t there. She cursed again. She fixed her sari once more, pulling up her anchal. She was so not fit for this sort of apparel. The way she sits, the way her feet find random places to rest themselves, forgetting they belong to a thirty something ‘lady’, does not really bode well for any girly dress. Her eyes were itchy from the lack of sleep from last night. She was so engrossed with a book, she did not notice the time. This would have been a good time for a cigarette, but no, she has promised herself she won’t smoke before she sees a patient. Damn it, it’s 1:30. No way she will be able to reach her appointment in time. Her head hurts from the lack of sleep, the smog, the sun, and everything. She tried to calm herself down thinking about her forthcoming patient. She has to appear nice and calm and mostly, together. After all, she is the therapist. A drop of sweat started its journey from the nape of her neck, slowly making its way down along her curved spine. She shivered involuntarily. A flash of memory. She does not pay any attention to these flashes usually. But at the moment that little piece of memory dug painfully into her mind. It was as if she could see his finger travelling down her body. It was as if she could even feel it. She started to breathe heavily, repeating to herself that there is no point thinking about the past. She tried to push the lump in her throat down. Nevertheless, the stubbornness of the memory kept taking her back to that night. That one night with him, before things turned around. When they were still together. She felt his hands, his long and lanky fingers, she remembered her gasps, she remembered his smile, she remembered him holding her, caressing her. She shook her head. No that was the past. It does not matter. It does not matter she kept repeating to herself. She breathed in deeply, and turned on the radio. One random guy on a bicycle next to the car was going on looking at her. She felt the glance, stared back and snapped, what?!? The guy seemed confused and looked away. She looked at her sari and no wonder it was not in its place. Seriously, she wonders sometimes, what the hell is wrong with the whole city? Why are they so crazy about a girl’s body? Perverts! All of them are perverts. The traffic seemed to have started again. Again the honking started at unison, the engines hummed to tune and all the cars started moving. Another flash. His body pressed against her own. NO! She won't think about it. She won't and that’s that. She tried to remember the details of the patient she has to see. She started the car. It’s 1:45. She may still make it.