The Page Will Turn..

This post has been published by me as a part of the Blog-a-Ton 46; the forty-sixth edition of the online marathon of Bloggers; where we decide and we write. To be part of the next edition, visit and start following Blog-a-Ton. 

  The tip of the kohl had turned blunt with use and the cheap glamour it afforded had faded with time. Smita had to repeatedly smudge its black lining to shape it to perfection, highlighting her eyes and adding that touch of mystery that drew clients to her ill reputed lane. The night was her ally, its dark cloak shielding her from the ugliness of her profession as men flocked to her to seek pleasure amidst the bustle of the city. The red shine of her lips glistened in the dim light as she adjusted the flimsy straps of her dress designed to bring out her voluptuous curves.

  Smita failed to recognise herself in the mirror. A pale beauty with haunting eyes stared back at her, the eyes devoid of dreams that had once drawn her to the city. For a moment time stilled as the past came back with startling clarity to torment her. The mirror adorned with artificial flowers felt like a window to her soul but the flowers with their mock splendour failed to soothe its upheaval.

  As a child Smita had loved flowers. She would bask in their fragrance, their natural beauty elevating her to some divine world where she wove them together into garlands of love, hope and joy. The village people called her ‘The Floral Beauty’. She would rescue dying flowers and paint their petals with shades of hue, using them to adorn the village during festivities. She would bunch fresh flowers into huge bouquets and sprinkle them with her hope and love. She had known in her heart that she was meant for something more and had moved to the city with floral dreams garnishing her hopeful eyes.

  But harsh reality had intruded soon enough and job in the city had turned out to be scarce. The meager amount of money had been insufficient to harbour to her needs and hunger, debt and necessity had driven her from door to door seeking jobs that might help sustain her in the ruthless city. She had sold her soul to the very devil when she had come begging to these doors, destitute and desperate, hungry for a morsel of bread and clean water to quench her thirst. And with her soul, she had sold her body.

  Smita drew in a deep breath, but no fragrance came to enfold her in its warm embrace. The touch of synthetic petals, devoid of life, provided no strength against the agony her bruised body suffered night after night. She left the dimly lit room and stepped out, the chilly wind cold against her bare skin. As she stood beneath the street light waiting for her clients to show up, she looked at the flowers hanging gracefully from the boughs of the tree. Their scent lingered on the streets, bringing hope to her shattered soul with it. Someday she would weave garlands of dreams again... Someday ‘The Floral Beauty’ shall sprinkle droplets of joy over the flowers of the city.

  A car drew up against the pavement and rolled down its window. After the usual hassle over the night’s bargain, Smita stepped inside her client’s car . And as the car drove past the tree Smita drew courage from her dreams, holding on to them like a talisman endowed with powers to heal her soul, knowing in her heart someday the page will turn.

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