Peering at me like she wanted to climb into me and hide herself from the world, Maaya stated, “Whoever said eyes are windows to the soul clearly never saw you!”
They say I am cold, that my silvery depth is evil. But I find them frightening. Of all the living things in this world, it is Humans who scare me.
“Dull eyes that no eyeliner can fix,” she complained as she dipped the little spindly stick into the cold black liquid before carefully lining the curve of her eyelid. Every day I watch her, berating what she saw in me. They call me cruel, unkind, and unforgiving. But I only show what I see.
Her eyes were of almond shape. I heard that comparison play out as a song on the old radio and found it fitting for her. She is an old soul trapped in a new body, with a repaired octogenarian radio still shining on her wooden table. Her mother’s old sarees worked into patchwork quilts stuck to her walls, her father’s old clock proudly ticking on the side. All her possessions were always in a neat little decor project around her. She calls it home. And sometimes, most times, I feel my silver melt when I see the way she touches, no, caresses her objects with care.
“Maybe I should get a lip job done. Ha ha ha…” she laughs, “as if lips can ever be the priority when I go under the knife.” It pains me that she pinches the spilling skin on her tummy, as she said. The skin there reddened slightly and then bounced back. Her eyes stayed at that spot for a while, with a storm of hatred inside them, and then they reverted back to her face. She puckered her lips and proceeded to paint them with bright red.
It was the first time in three years she applied that lipstick. Red. Her favourite colour, which was passionately hated by her Ex. She had stopped putting it on. She smacks her lips and stretches them almost into a smile, and then it morphs into a grimace. “I look like shit. Well, it is as good as it can possibly get,” she comments before turning to pick her dainty tulle top pink.
“What a slut you are…” he had said one day, I remember, his lips curling into a thin smile. Her eyes met his through me. By then, a swirl of a storm had started resting in her eyes.
“I hate that red lipstick. Can’t you be decent for once?” She cast her eyes down and never looked back at me or herself the same again. Even if I break into a million shards, I could never cut into anyone like that. It was not just one comment in which his malice seeped into her. He had slowly sliced her skin and planted venomous seeds in her. Something about her skin, her eyes, her smile, her thighs, her laughter, her joy. He had snaked his arms around her and squeezed her happy self into a small, suffocating box of his expectations. And then, one day, he left. Left her with so many sprouts of those venomous thoughts. The night he left, the storm I saw in her eyes had become a deluge. For months after, it threatened to engulf her every day. But she survived. Only barely. Wearing darker shirts and baggy pants, loose oversized tees, sometimes forgetting to brush her hair, sometimes not meeting her own eyes through me. And sometimes, when she did, I saw the storm in her eyes dance relentlessly, never raining nor receding.
She finished wearing her clothes—her pink tulle top and sleek black leggings. She looked good, better than so many people these days. Not that she believed in herself or cared for the person she saw in me. She opened her door, and in flew a panicked sparrow.
“Oh, my god!” she exclaimed, quickly turning the ceiling fan off before the hapless sparrow cut herself.
The sparrow flew across the room in an unhappy spiral.
“Are you being chased, little one?” she said in a gentle tone. A low coo from outside was enough for her to get who was chasing the sparrow. The sparrow zoomed into the small crevice in the loft and peeped out a moment later.
She huffed a kind laugh, not minding to hold a refuge for her tiny guest.
“Shh... you will be safe here,” she said, opening her door into a sliver that could hardly fit her. A loud coo met her exit, sending the sparrow to cower in fright. The door clicked close, and eventual silence cajoled the sparrow from her cover. She is a brown bird with flustered feathers and beady eyes peering curiously at her new surroundings. And then she flew around the room once again.
She flew first to the patchwork quilts, finding a warm loop to get under and slide out. She hopped onto the wooden table next, inspecting the old radio, rustling papers, and mesh window that held the view of trees in great interest. And then she flew around the room once again. Her sanctuary and entrapment. A slight edge of anxiousness filtered through her beaded eyes. Now that its predator is no longer the threat. And then she spotted another bird within my silvery depths.
She froze in her flight and then scampered back into her cover under the loft. She peered right back after a whole moment. Now actually peering at the strange contraption showing a loft of another bird. Ruffled feathers and all. Maybe the bird she saw in me looked easier to intimidate than whatever was chasing her outside. Like a small furry bullet, she launched into my cold, harsh surface. Her tiny thick beak took the impact of the folly. I wish I could say I felt the impact. But I cannot lie. My glass only gave a resounding clink. The hapless sparrow, now disoriented, flew back and forth like a little misguided missile.
She launched an attack after attack, hurting herself in the process. To feel safe, bullying the fearful bird she saw in me. With one last flutter of feathers, she collapsed, bleeding at the beak. Her failing heart fluttered at the throat, wings at odd angles splayed along her tiny body. Just then, the door clicked open. And in came Maaya, pink tulle and all. Curly hair spilt across her face in great waves, and she picked the little one gingerly into her palms.
“Oh, no… no, no… darling… what could have happened to you?” she said, cooing to the dying sparrow nestled in her palms. A trail of blood that spotted me told her enough of my innocent crime. She stared at me, and the realisation hit her. With tears spilling from her eyes, she said, “No, no, no… little one… it was just you in that mirror.” She cradled the unfortunate bird and cried.
“It was just you in the mirror…”
“Yes,” I wanted to say, “It was just you in the mirror.”
Credits
This micro-fiction was reviewed by R. S. Chintalapati, edited by Sanskriti Sharma & illustrated by Akshay Dogra.
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This story is insightful, weaving deep meaning into its layered narrative.
Deserves an applause 👏👏
Good story and writing which reflects potential.
Deep ❤️