The Dance

He gazed into her eyes as the tune picked up. He gazed into her eyes with such intensity, such an imploring look, yet at the same time distant and aloof. A mix of love and careless arrogance. Her eyes glinted in acknowledgment to love. They did not register the aloofness. His fingers clasped around hers as she placed her left hand on his shoulders. They had picked up the tune. Slowly they began to move, his left foot forward, she taking a graceful one, stepping behind. Demurely at first, and then flowing naturally, left and right then together and back again. And over again, as her steps gracefully matched his, his shinning black shoes in stark contrast to her light coloured ones. His loving yet cold eyes washed over her as she leaned back a little and then when she turned, her hands holding his, her gown flowing all about her, her face radiant, eyes overflowing with love, her cheeks flushed, everyone began to applaud. The first dance was done. Couples from all parts of the hall moved over, their young eager faces, bright eyes, elegant dresses and highly polished shoes, beaming at each other, as the musicians breathed life to music and the ever over brimming romance gave way to waltz.

In his right hand was a rocks whisky glass. When everyone had been applauding the first dance, he had not done the same. He remained sitting, watching the couple and after the applauses had settled down, he lifted his glass a little, an indication to have another one. The act was carried out instantaneously. He sat there watching the couples dance, the musicians at work, the bustle of activity, the flashes of white among the black tail coats, as ladies turned around, the smiles on their faces, the reddening cheek, as they finished the box and started over again. His cold eyes gazed over them, the hand holding the glass, steady, as steady as his eyes, fixed and staring. His face had a severity about it; his hair smoothened on his head, combed backward. He was clean shaved, his slightly long nose adding to the general harshness to his face. Yet beyond the initial impression, one could see that it was a handsome face after all. His eyes and hair made his face look more severe than it actually was. There was a single line on his forehead, a little too clearly marked, yet not deep. His face was rigid, his jaw firmly set, his entire frame not moving, save for the movement of his hands to his lips and back. Almost mechanical.

He had loved her. God! How much he had loved her. And he still did. Through the rich brownish colour of whiskey, he saw them moving. He had loved her madly. And she had reciprocated his love. He had been courting her and they were about to be engaged. Only that another man, his rival, was trying to woo her too. She was not keen on him, regarded his jealousy lightly and laughed at the silly young man trying to entice her away from the one whom she was about to get engaged to. Oh, she was beautiful. Lovely large black eyes, her chestnut brown hair, curling a little, her pretty face, radiant. He was enchanted by her, crazed in her presence, and craving when alone. He loved everything about her. Two days before they were to announce their engagement, he had escorted her back to her home and then had been on his way back home when the accident happened. He was lost in her thoughts, too deep into reverie to pay attention to what was happening around him. That was when he was struck by an out-of-control motorcar. He was told later that he would never ever walk again.

His eyes twitched a little but his face did not show any emotion. It was almost three months since he had come back from the hospital, on a wheelchair. Of course their engagement had been called off. She had come the next day, a day before they were supposed to get engaged, and he had clutched her hands and told her that he would be condemned to a life on wheelchair. She had not come to see him again after that day. A few days after coming back from the hospital, he heard the news of her engagement to his rival. And now he was sitting in the wheelchair, the first dance being over, drinking to her and to his own silent misery. He loved her still. Badly. Madly. Yet she was someone else’s now. His entire life torn apart.

He saw them again. They had moved to the center of the dance floor, almost still. Couples danced all around her, the faster ones to the outside, the slower ones towards the inner side. Yet in the center, he could only see them. She was flushed. Her hands rested on his shoulders, just the way they rested on his when she was tired after taking a walk. “You are fickle, my dear” he whispered to himself, a harsh smile on his face, his eyes cold yet loving. He could never hate her. He only had love for her. A while back when she had passed him, on her way to the dance, he had smelled her perfume. The sweet overpowering smell that he had always loved. The only smell in the world that consumed him. A smell he could never drive out of his mind. That had been the only moment when his hands shook a little, the ice in the glass making a slight “clink”. She had not noticed, of course, her hands in his, walking away as admiring eyes followed them.

Her face was very close to his now. He was whispering something to her. She looked at him radiantly and almost nestled her face in his, giving him a quick peck on his cheek, before letting her head rest on his shoulders. He gently rocked her to the tune of the music, his hands holding her...and when music arose with its voluptuous swell, soft eyes looked love to eyes which spake again.

He lifted two of his left fingers a little. An indication that it was time. He was wheeled away by his attendant, his eyes fixed on her, as she lay in his arms. He smiled, a cold smile. “I had my dance with you my love, your first dance was with me…even before him…”

- Parekh, Pravesh

September 17, 2013; 02:01 AM