Bottled Grave

 I clicked your picture by those wild roses, pink little roses, a vine that covered all our windows. How much I insisted on chopping that off, but you changed the topic every time. Maybe those roses reminded you of your wild days, carefree running by the river, moving freely in the forests, or perhaps they brought the memories of the man holding your hand, carrying the rifle, who protected you. Perhaps! 

You picked up your glasses and started reading another Vikram Betaal story. Your feet used to move delicately all over the place, and your hand movements were graceful. You were humming some song from the forest. I jokingly used to call you Katha kahe, so Kathak. Your laughter filled the whole room.

The grave inside the bottle stared at me. Why would anyone keep this kind of thing in the bedroom? I used to wonder. But now I understand. You were abandoned, betrayed by your own at a delicate age, then the person holding your hands was taken away by destiny, the little one died in your arms. Suddenly all the scenarios started to reflect on the walls of the bottle. 

I saw you dancing, heard your songs, and sniffed your books. You used to say my hands were quite similar to your little ones'. I looked at my hands, polished with fake nails, and I so badly don't want anything in me that reminds me of you. Tears fell on my hands, and suddenly, everything vanished. The only thing that remained was that glass bottle with the grave. I filled the bottle with the ashes and decorated the roses on its lid.