I liked that they were not red, or pink, but still smelled just as pretty. Each time I found one, I’d pluck the petals one by one, being careful not to tear them in the process. For some reason it was terribly important for me not to tarnish them, break them, ruin them in any way. I was a very clumsy child, but with the petals I was always very careful.

Once my small white heap was complete, I’d pick each petal and gently rub the soft white flesh with my thumb and fore finger, letting the delicate aroma sink into my fingerprints, into my bloodstream. I was sure one day it would be enough, one day I too would smell like a rose; a white rose, flawless and not common.

I’ve grown up now; I know better. When I see a white rose, I ball my fists and pull away from the vicious, spewing thorns.

He wonders what the artist was thinking while sketching this one. Was he given a low down of the crimes? Did he have a victim fill his head? Did he judge, frown in disgust at the deeds of wrong piled up, creating a monster? Or did the artist sympathise with the face being pulled out of police records, first the forehead, then the eyebrows, the thin hairline, recognizing the turbulence that fuelled the crimes. Surely the artist, stewing in cocoon of frustration, has an inkling of how quickly things can go wrong.

He notes the delicate softening around the curve of the lips; instinctively he reaches for his lips and smiles in recognition. He also recognizes the multiple dimensions in the eyes – this is a complicated man, with a complicated life, the artist tells him. He nods in agreement, pulling his cap further down, as he walks away, hiding those eyes, those spots and blemishes.

Read my piece, The Grainy Video, on Every Day Fiction.

I spend that first week talking. I tell her who she is. I tell her who I am. I tell her about her accident. When she asks, I tell her about us and how we met. I tell her about her favourite things. I tell her about our favourite things. When I catch her eye, between conversational gaps, she smiles back at me. When I share a joke, she laughs.

The week grows into three and she still doesn’t remember. We moved back home because the doctors say it’s better for her to be in an environment that is familiar. At first it is awkward, then it’s less so. We’ve even slipped into a routine –I leave early in the morning, kissing her forehead before heading out; she spends her day trying to remember and painting in her garage studio, trying to recognize herself in the art she creates; when I get home, we have a simple meal –sometimes I cook, sometimes she does; we talk about this and that and about nothing at all; and then we go to bed– separate beds because she doesn’t remember and that makes it weird. Sometimes we kiss. It’s always a soft, lingering kiss. Afterwards, alone, in our bedroom, I catch myself thinking, this is kind of perfect, maybe she doesn’t need to remember.

There is a young boy at the counter. He is dressed in a faded maroon shirt. He wears a new moustache, but you can’t really call it that. Not yet at least. His long, bony fingers drum an impatient tune on the wooden counter. The white pearl on his little finger – no doubt a birthstone prescribed by the family astrologer, seems incredibly heavy in comparison. His left thumb nail is long, it curves like a bird’s talon, and is painted pink. She finds the nail unnerving, but likes the colour. She wonders what brand it is.

The boy looks bored. His eyes are cold and black, and his mouth is fixed in a sneer. He intimidates her, much like the kids who huddle by the corner of her building. She avoids eye contact even though his eyes follow her. He doesn’t offer any help.

She keeps her back to him, and focuses on the shelves, her fingers trailing over the many smudges on the glass that covers them. Soaps, shampoos, lotions, creams, her eyes take them all in. She knows exactly which brand is running an offer, which one gets her an additional unit free, and how much extra product she’ll get for her notes. She picks only those out and places them on the counter next to the boy. Her movements are measured, much like the way she uses her oils and shampoos, not wasting a single drop.

The boy with the pink talon surveys the counter with a smirk. His expression says what he doesn’t. Despite his shabby appearance, she knows he doesn’t have to bother studying the season’s offers. She avoids his eye as he tags and bags her rations.

It comes to a bag full; the boxes and bottles bulge out at grotesque angles. She waits for the boy to write out her bill in pen. It bothers her when he scrawls the total carelessly. It bothers her how little this number affects him – a number she has been obsessing over, silently adding and multiplying, subtracting and eliminating.

It bothers her that he doesn’t appreciate how much value she has managed to extract from that number he has underlined. As she grabs the shopping bag with both hands, she clutches her purse to her side, squeezing it in between her rib cage and upper arm, protecting the remaining cluster of notes that’ll see her through for a better part of the month.

In the old days, when she was much younger, Aai would wake up even earlier than her 5:30 weekly alarm to prepare Prasad, an offering of sweetmeats, before going to the Temple. The aroma of ghee and sugar would embrace us, discreetly nudging out sleep and replacing it with a ferocious hunger. Later on, when her knees and bones grew indignant, Aai replaced the elaborately prepared sweets with chunks of white rock sugar. She never once complained over the slow creeping changes that forced her to alter her ways.

Aai was always back home from the Temple in time for breakfast. She smelled like sandalwood and her smile was serene. After she had offered the flowers at the temple, she’d pick one up, sprinkle it with holy water and carry it back home. She’d press the soft, cool flower against our closed eyes, chanting a soft hymn. On Tuesdays I always felt invincible. Maybe it was the full stomach, stacked with rich, homemade sweets, or maybe it was Aai’s prayers. Tuesdays were always the best days of the week, better even then the weekends, when we could sleep late.

I was barely out of college when Aai passed away. The grief made a workaholic out of me, but her blessings and prayers always ensured me and my sister led good, full lives. Years later, when I was married and pregnant with my first daughter, I keep thinking of Aai. I’d flip through old family albums and remember long forgotten details; I’d remember the sound of her tinkling laughter; I’d remember a joke she had shared; I’d remember the Tuesday morning aromas and catch a hint of hibiscus in the air.

My daughter was born early on a Tuesday morning. She had Aai’s brown eyes, and as I’d find out later, her laugh. That morning, exhausted but content, as I held my new born daughter in my arms, I knew it was time to revive Aai’s Tuesday morning ritual.

His photo sat on the side table. It was the same photo as his Facebook profile. His smile was wide and eyes bright; it was taken on New Year’s Eve in Singapore, at a Bollywood party. She couldn’t remember who took the photo, but it wasn’t her. Now a heavy garland of marigolds swung from side to side, framing his face and an incense stick – sandalwood – was lit next to the frame. She stared at the burning tip of the stick as it turned to ash and the stick itself grew shorter. It kept her from looking at his face, but the longer she stared, the clearer she saw him.

They had been married for eight years, and yet she barely knew him. It was complicated – there was really nothing wrong between them, but things weren’t right either. After a couple of years together they simply drifted apart, inch by inch, till the gulf was too wide to bridge. She had often thought of leaving, she had even packed her bags once or twice, but she never did walk out. Now he was gone, leaving behind the simplest solution. It was a clean break, and yet her eyes welled up.

“I’m so sorry for your loss,” a soft voice crept up to her, forcing another set of tears out.

I forgot to make his lunch.

He said I was being overtly emotional.

I turned to ice.

He created a scene in front my friends.

I keyed his car – one hormonal spool of venom from bumper to bumper.

He grew a mood and threw a punch.

I cut out his shirt sleeves – all of them.

He attacked. I retaliated.

I attacked. He retaliated.

We matched each other step for ugly step. When he inched ahead, I pulled out my claws. When I nudged to the lead, he jerked his way back to even. It was intense. It was exhausting. But we were so focused on going for the jugular, we lost score. And in the sudden silence that spooled forth, we sat numb and confused. What comes next, we wondered; it was our first civil conversation. It felt alien, uncomfortable. Like a dental procedure.

Before the evening ended, we figured there was only one way to get back on track – we had to start afresh. The ticker went back to 0-0.

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Read my new Flash piece, The Funeral, on Every Writer’s Resource.

“Why do we shut the gate at night, Mama” she had asked as a five year old. “To keep the monsters out, so sweet little girls like you aren’t troubled with nightmares,” came the reply.

The sky was changing rapidly. First the blue turned into something deeper, then it changed to a soft pink, before that too turned into something deeper. The darkness spilling out was growing with every step she took, turning from swirling patterns to a blanketing silence.

Gina twisted and turned, pulling the quilt with her, leaving parts of her body bare. It was a cold night, and the dark chill soaked into her skin. She mumbled in her sleep: “No, wait. I’m here. Please open the gates!” She shouted at the stocky medieval town wall. She threw her balled up fists against the heavy wood of the gates; her frail fists made but a soft thud. “Please,” she cried out desperately. “Please, let me in!” But the doors didn’t budge. There wasn’t even a crack; no room for lucky escapes. Gina braced herself for the coming nightmare.