The Ritual

He was working in the field, when he sensed her going towards the makeshift shower. Without turning his head, he could tell that she was picking her way carefully, wary of the rough gravel. Her anklets were whispering, as if afraid to break the quiet of the morning. Carrying her fresh clothes in one hand, the other hand swinging her tightly plaited hair; she made her way, furtively glancing in his direction. This was their daily ritual.

Her hand tentatively drew the curtain, in an attempt to block out the bold rays of sunlight that struggled to make its way through the crack in the door. She could see his strong arms; brown and wiry, as he deftly cut the bamboo into long strips. She knew he was watching her, his eyes hungry, a look that made her shiver in excitement.

Taking off her clothes, she remembered she had to hurry, there were people coming home. Her hands, however, did not show any such urgency, as her fingers moved caressingly over her body, taking off each piece of garment in a languid movement. Was he watching her? Shameless fellow. She moved her eyes close to the crack. He was no where to be seen. Where is he? Did he go away? Her eyes searched the sun-swept fields and suddenly he stood up, from where he had been bent down in between the bamboo shrubs. He faced her, as he stood there bronze in the golden sun, the sweat drops glistening on his bare chest. She gasped and moved away. Had he seen her? Did he know that she was looking out for him? Her body scorched hot even as the cold water ran down.

They had finalized an alliance with their son, the people who had come the other day. She was getting married today. As she walked towards the shower, carrying fragrant oil in her hands, she looked out to see where he was. He was not to be seen. Maybe he had not yet come. She was a little early today. She decided to oil her long stresses while keeping an eye on the crack of the door. A thousand golden rays spilled in unapologetic ripples over her bosom as she untied her blouse. Where was he? Why was he late? Had he gone somewhere? Perhaps, another woman? She couldn’t bear the thought. But why? Why was she waiting for him on her marriage day? She herself would be gone in a while, never perhaps to see him again? So, why was she holding her breath in anticipation? Why was she looking out for him?

Her husband’s cousin was coming today to help with the harvest. Her husband was not keeping well and they needed an extra hand to tide away the busy months. She looked up from where she was filling the water pots, as the horse drawn tanga stopped before the house. He was standing their, as bronze, as wiry, and as strong as she remembered him every night. The future no more stressed out like an uninterrupted monotonous line, the ritual would continue.