The soft patter against the asphalt felt like a rhythm. A thin rain had been falling since the morning. Not heavy, just steady and patient. The sky was soft grey, and the air felt cool against the skin. The petrichor scent, however, was making up for it all. Somewhere nearby, tyres moved over damp roads with a low, gentle sound. The wind hushed, and the leaves rustled.
There were hardly any people on the street, except for a few patchworkers, trying to cover up some broken road areas.
A typical monsoon scenario. People ditching work to have garam pakodas and chai. What's new? Not everyone has the privilege of faking an illness and calling it a day off.
She tightened her grip on the umbrella as the drizzle got heavier.
Well, it was bound to happen. The sky had been carrying the weight of it all morning. After all, everything that holds too much must one day pour, though some unfortunate ones never get the chance to rain.
As she continued gazing at the glimmering raindrops, a mid-elderly woman walked up beside her, close enough for the edges of their umbrellas to almost touch.
She must be waiting for the bus.
The woman glanced at her once, briefly, then turned to face the road again. After a while, she felt it...that quiet awareness of being watched. She turned slightly and caught the woman looking at her. The woman quickly faced forward, as if nothing had happened.
It wasn't new. An everyday thing for her. She had grown used to such looks.
For a moment, she considered asking if the woman wanted to say something. The words almost reached her lips, but just then, the bus pulled in with a rattled hiss.
She adjusted the scarf over half of her face, partially covering it, with the other hand that was free from her umbrella. The woman stepped forward first. She followed behind her.
The road darkened. Dust dissolved into the mist. Everything felt blurry for a moment. The sharp smell of wet earth was like a soft touch, tender and ancient.
Bheegi meetti. She loves it. It feels more like a memory. Like the land remembering itself.
The patter on the bus's roof began to sync with a steady rhythm. The leaves of neem and gulmohar trees appeared greener. Puddles gathered quietly in shallow dents of the road, holding pieces of sky within them. Every passing breeze carried calm stories to tell.
There was a stillness to the rain that morning. The kind of stillness that provides solace after a scorching summer.
She was seated by the window, fourth row from the back. The seat beside her was empty. The windowpane was dotted with tiny spots of rain. The bus moved steadily, its engine humming low, tyres cutting through wet roads.
She was watching the rain through the window, when she felt it.
A stare. Not a glance. Not a passing look.
A prominent stare.
She turned her head to the right.
A man across the aisle seemed to be looking at her. But, the moment she turned towards him, he turned. At first she felt it was in her mind, but this reoccurred two more times until she finally turned straight back at him. Directly. Unblinking. His eyes did not shift even when she caught him. It felt hesitant, but she did not blink.
For a second, neither of them moved.
She knew this look. Quite a normal everyday thing for her.
Curiosity, concern or sometimes shock disguised as observation. That silent question people carried in their eyes when they thought she could not see it.
But, this time she did not look away or let it go. Afterall, she had to let out the 'bad day effect' on someone, right?
"Go on," she said, removing the scarf that covered one side of her face slowly, without breaking eye contact, "look properly."
She pulled the scarf down. Fully.
His eyes flickered with discomfort, shoulders stiffening. It was slight, but visible. He hadn't expected this. He hadn't expected to be acknowledged.
There was no drama in her movement. No anger. No trembling. Just courage. The courage that people usually don't like seeing in women like her.
The fabric fluttered, falling around her neck. The air touched her face openly now. Bare and unshielded. For a long moment, she simply sat there. Uncovered, steady and unafraid.
The man cleared his throat and hesitated before turning in the complete opposite direction, still trying to figure out where he should look to escape her gaze. She smirked and let the fabric stay as it is. Apart from him two more passengers stared at her for about a minute or two, but she did not care a bit.
But she did not pull the scarf up again. She did not need to.
They must be thinking, how courageous of her to show her scars without a single bit of hesitation, or how rude of her to pull this move.
She could feel a brush of cool breeze, along with a few drizzles against her bare face, as she glanced outside the window.
The bus continued moving. Rain tapped against the windows. Someone coughed at the front. Life went on. But in that small space between their seats, something shifted.
Maybe, it was her courage.
The bus slowed with a long, tired screech.
The rain had softened now and the road outside looked washed, quieter. The conductor called out the stop in a dull, practiced voice.
She stood up.
For a brief second, her hand moved instinctively toward her face, but then stopped midway.
There was nothing to adjust anymore.
As she stepped forward towards the door, she noticed the empty seat beside her. The scarf lay there, slightly crumpled. She paused. Just for a moment.
Her eyes rested on it, not with attachment, not with hesitation, but with a kind of still understanding. Then, almost subconsciously, a faint smile appeared on her lips.
And she turned away.
She stepped down from the bus. The air touched her face openly now. No barrier. No scarf. Just the breeze, as it was.
The bus pulled away behind her, carrying the scarf with it.
She didn't look back.
The rain washed the air clean. The trees across the road appeared softened and clearer. Even the honk of a distant vehicle sounded muffled, as though filtered through layers of falling droplets. The water had touched her hair, settled lightly on her dupatta, traced quiet paths along the edge of her sleeve. She did not wipe it away. She let it remain.
The lane leading to her house was narrow, lined with houses that had seen years of the same routine. Water dripped from rooftops. A few doors stood half-open. Life seemed to move slowly here.
A stray dog slept curled near the corner, its fur brownish-toned. A few people stood scattered under the shade, each busy with their own work.
As she walked further, a woman walking toward her slowed down. Then stopped. Her eyes widened slightly. She kept looking, as if trying to make sense out of something that she hadn't seen in years.
She walked past her.
Then another.
A man, crouched near a tap, filling a bucket with water, froze mid-motion. His hand remained still, his eyes lifting slowly... and stopping at her face.
She did not lower her gaze. She kept walking...
A few more turns. A few more eyes.
On a balcony above, a woman leaning against the railing, stared at her with a sharp, judgmental glare. Her eyes followed her as she walked past her house.
For a moment, it would have once been too much. But not today.
Something inside her shifted firmly. The weight of those stares did not bother her anymore. Something about this day was different.
Let them look, she thought. At least now, I can look back.
She reached her door and pressed the bell.
No answer.
She pressed it again.
A voice came from inside, "Coming!"
As the door opened, a mid-aged woman stood there, frozen.
Her eyes widened and hand remained on the door. Words seemed to fumble at the same time. For a moment, she simply stared at her. Then taking in something she had not seen in years, she finally spoke, "Drishtu!"
She didn't wait. She stepped forward, gently pushing past the woman and entering the house.
The woman followed behind, still trying to process, still trying to speak.
"Drishtu... what's this? What happened to your scarf? Did you remove it outside? Or... did you come all the way like this? I...I mean...this is the first time I'm seeing you outside without covering your face..."
She turned, placing her hands softly on the woman's shoulders, with a very calm expression.
"Relax, maa," she said quietly. "I left my scarf in the bus."
Her mother blinked, confused.
"I just... felt free enough to do it today."
A small confused pause filled it.
"You know, on the way... there was a man. He kept staring. Nothing new for me, right?" she let out a faint breath. "But this time, I didn't look away. I removed the scarf. I let him see."
Her voice didn't shake.
"He looked away. And that's when I realised... it was never just my face they were looking at," she continued, softer now. "It was the scarf. It was always the damn scarf. I had made myself into that... all these years."
She continued softly yet convincingly, looking directly into her mother's eyes.
"As I walked back, there were more stares than ever. But something changed."
A faint smile appeared. "I wasn't scared of them anymore. The truth doesn't change with a scarf, maa.
So I left it."
Her mother stared at her for a long moment. Then her expression softened. The fear in her eyes slowly vanished into something warmer and relieving.
"You scared me, Drishtu," she whispered. "I thought..."
She stopped herself. Then gently placed her hand on her head, stroking her hair with quiet affection.
"Never mind," she said, with a soft, reassuring smile. "I'm so happy... You got your courage back, bachaa."
"Now sit," she added, turning slightly. "Paani laati hoon tumhare liye." (Let me bring water for you)
And for the first time in a long while, nothing in the room felt heavy.
As her mother disappeared into the kitchen, the sound of utensils faint in the background, her eyes shifted toward the mirror fixed beside the fridge.
She stopped. For a second, she only looked at her reflection. Then she took a few slow steps closer. She faced it.
Was it right? What I did felt good, but was it really the right thing to do?
Somewhere behind her, the world had moved on. But not her. Not entirely.
Her hand lifted. Her fingers moved gently toward the right side of her face, tracing the scars slowly.
The skin there was different, uneven, tightened in places. Nearly half of her face carried it. The smooth curve that once existed had broken into textures that didn't follow any pattern. The jawline was deformed slightly where the skin had healed over itself. Near her cheek, faint ridges had formed. Her lips were slightly pulled on one side, holding a shape that was no longer symmetrical.
It wasn't something you could ignore.
And yet... It wasn't something that she could erase either.
She closed her eyes, and there it was again.
Her fingers paused there, resting. Her eyes met her own in the mirror.
For the first time, she did not look away quickly. She did not shift focus to the left side. She did not adjust anything to balance what could not be balanced. She just stood there. Completely. A slow breath left her.
And then...
She smiled.
Not a fake one. Not one halfway.
A real smile. The one that reached her eyes first, then settled on her unsymmetrical lips.
But now she was unbothered by the uneven pull, unafraid of how it looked.
Something inside her rose. Not confidence. Not pride.
But acceptance, strength and assurance.
An assurance that she didn't need to hide. Not anymore.
Because it was never her who needed to hide. It was never HER.
ZAKHM
~Authorr_Alora
Write a comment ...