Hell Hath No Fury Like a Woman Scorned
Little event, ordinary things
You didn’t know how it happened, but it was right there within your face.
Once again your dream shattered in a moment shrouded by one sentence, ten words, and red coloring.
It left you broken.
You didn’t expect it to last for such a little time. The hope. The aspiration. The desires. They all flooded your heart like a tsunami even when the thought of a bad day at the office should’ve been prominent.
Though your auricles and ventricles could withstand the density and salinity of those liquid motions, that heart still burned when you remembered the power of words, more than that, the power of spoken words. The flame stood right over the waters.
You had flipped through several books already, looking for the best plots to scale the clumsy ideas in your head.
The success of ‘All the Bad Choices’ had been short-lived and you were looking ahead to the good choices you’d make by writing and earning.
You remember — Promises, Promises.
When you read the god of small things, that heart burned tirelessly for weeks and months. The thought of what happened to Velutha, the vulnerability of Amuu, the life of Rahel and Esthappen, and the connectedness in their story.
They were joined by a story and then, a memory.
Hate was an Outlander that found its way to them through the Craig na Dun.
The whispers. The small things.
The romantic undertones. Their little things.
The war, Sophie Mol, and the Oxford graduate — the big things.
Papachi. Mamachi. The old things.
Faulty stars shinning over an imperfect world.
You remembered.
‘We are one blood’, not in the voice of Amuu, but now the voice of your own mother — All she did, all she said, she did her best to raise you better.
She was your Ammu, the one who you thought would never harm you.
She caved. Did the worst. Turned her back, and let that hate slip through the cracks.
You caved.
You went in headfirst, never thinking about who what you said hurt, in what verse, and your mom probably got it the worst. Maybe Hadassah had an experience so near, but not like your mom.
Like Eminem, you regret it!
A death. The stain caused by the dirt that should never touch your heart — the earth.
Your dream shattered in those days
Now again.
Perhaps, no third party would be aware enough to know when you hurt. No one else would be sensitive enough to know what probes your mind when you sit still in your seat.
Maybe it’s why you desire those relationships on some days and right there again, you panic and enter your own shell to self-preserve the remains of your burnt flesh.
You’re scared of little things like walking away, ordinary events so mundane that they could change the course of your entire life.
You fear. The little things, the ordinary events
Also, the little events, the ordinary things.
Though small, though ordinary, these are those that formed the core of your being today, they are the things that cause this sickness, this malady that saddens your heart every day.
Now, you bow to the wrath of women, the fierce fury that burns in their bellies, the actions that are akin to volcanic eruptions. Though simple, these bodies still conquer kingdoms, and kings still suck those breasts as a way to celebrate their victory.
Kingdoms still rise, and kingdoms still fall, on the back of those curves that give pleasure. Though fragile, yet strong enough to withstand the arrows of unfettered and disguised affections.
When hate will slip through those cracks again, It’d be better if you ran. For hell hath no greater fury like a woman scorned.
