Restricted from adorning my hands with mehndi as a student,
Now, when mother urges me to give it a try,
Hesitation blooms, accompanied by silly queries,
"Does it fade away?" I ask, "Or does it take time to dry?"
"Let's browse designs first," I suggest, pondering,
"If both hands are inked, how will I quench my thirst?"
Despite my initial reluctance, a desire to experiment sparks within,
Observing its charm on other women's hands,
Always a vibrant orange hue, Sometimes delicately framing the fingertips,
Its charm is undeniable.
With a cone in hand, I tentatively begin,
Sketching random patterns on my palm,
From spirals to ambiguous shapes,
I fear I've botched it, is
But a brush of courage propels me forward,
Adorning diagonal leaves on each digit,
Moving inward, I refine my artistry.
Mother reassures, "It's fine, my dear,
Once it dries, it'll be a sight to behold."
Trusting her wisdom, I proceed,
Drawing clean, vertical lines on the remaining fingers,
Yet the ring finger appears somehow lonely.
Adding delicate foliage, my confidence blooms,
Each stroke an ode to beauty.
"Mother, what signifies the darkness of mehndi?" I inquire,
"Deeper the shade, the stronger the bond," she imparts,
Her words gently teasing my lips into a smile.
Excitement dances within me, rendering the night silent,
As warm sunlight illuminates my hands, washed with oil the night prior,
Now, the lines deepen into rich hues,
As if chocolate syrup spilled upon my hands, so artistically,
Enhancing their grace,
I wonder, when will they be kissed?
Mother claims, "Even in your absence, your beloved cherishes you."
"Mother, do you think my beloved awaits the gaze of my eyes each day?"
~Riddhi
