It’s a short story. A story etched with joy. It is a long time since I heard a happy story. Everybody I talk to with, manifest themselves to the pain of this world. Then who is it, I wonder who reels in the joy of living. Whose soul is blessed with the gift of nirvana?

I saw her walking on the road. Her back bare, a sari draped casually around her taut body. Her breasts played hide and seek beneath the flimsy material. She was carrying a wicker basket on her head which had in it a few bricks. She walked on the pavement, tall and majestic, like as if she is the one who rules the world. What freedom in her grace. We urban women who speak of freedom would simply shy away. She stopped to speak to the watchman of our apartment. He winked at her as he lit her beedi and then helped her to place the basket on her head.

She continued to walk briskly, puffing smoke into the air. So innate was the action that she seemed unaware of people staring at her. The sky was overburdened with grey clouds. The city was all set to receive the first summer showers for the year. She fitted into the mood perfectly. I could not help looking at her, her body so open to the touch of the breeze. No shame in being who you are. She knew what it is to be a woman. I had to speak to her.

“Can I click a picture?” I asked.

She smiled and her smile was as sexy as she was. She adjusted her sari, “a little of the breast,” she asked, winking at me.

“Oh, no,” I laughed, “just you.”

She shrugged, sat on the pavement littered with the pink jacaranda flowers, undid her bun and then tied it again. She placed the basked besides her, lit another beedi and then I clicked her picture which I titled - Nirvana!

Shaista Yacoob.

* Beedi – tobacco rolled by hand.