Her nest
The steam from his purple coffee mug rose to the sky and became a part of it till it was no more an entity. The aroma of freshly pounded beans wafted the air, reaching out to neighbors till it belonged no more to him. The beverage sat lonely on the window sill till it turned cold like his contemplative stare. Exhausted, waiting for his eager lips to touch its rim, the mug wept steamy tears. Shanmukh stared at the canvas with the paint on his brush drying and the coffee untouched. The painting missed a crucial element. What the painter couldn't tell. ****** The cold waters streamed down her long silky mane. Each time the bucket emptied itself on her taut caput, she said a small prayer. Twenty-two buckets from twenty-two springs were washing her off her past karma. Or that was what her Amma had believed. She only knew whatever it was she would be relieved of her barrenness, her infertility. At this very Rameshwaram Theertham, Lord Rama's exile had ended. Her, too, would end. Bel...