The front door framework was a piece of art in itself, a collage of memorabilia the twins had collected from all over the world -- beautiful blue pottery, melodious mountainous chimes and vibrant, colourful devilish masks amongst others. The centre of attraction, yet, was held by the ubiquitous newspaper-model nameplate holding their names in headline bold, but beautiful cursive acrylic, "Khyati & Kriti."
While success came in a platter for them, their label building a legacy in the realm of luxury stationery, the dust of companionship had now touched the point of rusting. Inevitable, as it were, the twins, much like their preferred cuisines, ended up deliberating upon the same person. Similarity became a narrative in their story's landscape, and it stood out like pain.
Out of his double breasted suit, Nayan shone like a prime bachelor designated for the good life. His eyes were on Khyati's nose-pin though, a flying bird. He came around with two glasses of red wine and offered one to her. Within minutes the room could sense their building chemistry. From a distance Kriti tried to stop herself from the overpowering lash of jealously -- this time she had decided to try and restrain.
That night Kriti spent her most restless hours seeing Khyati go with Nayan. Meanwhile, as things were meant to be, inch by inch the proximity between them diminished. It was Nayan's living room couch that finally found them in their sweaty embrace of passion. Around dawn when the wine was beginning to mist away, Nayan came over Khyati and kissed her all over -- her eyes, ears, lips and nose.
To cut a long story short, Khyati was probably having the time of life, and it was only a matter of time till the beautiful mist would blind us all.
Two years down the lane as Mrs & Mr Nayan, who could say similarities would no longer remain the narrative of their conjugal story's landscape? The flying bird of Kyati's nosepin was used well by Nayan, Kriti wears it now on the inside of her right ear. The death of a twin is miserable, but murder? One could not quite say. In a successful voodoo attempt, Kriti settled for Nayan, and now Nayan manages the new label "Nayan-Kriti." After Khyati, it was a natural handover.
Who could call off the tension in a short story, my dear? Mists and memories clear to reveal moments.
While success came in a platter for them, their label building a legacy in the realm of luxury stationery, the dust of companionship had now touched the point of rusting. Inevitable, as it were, the twins, much like their preferred cuisines, ended up deliberating upon the same person. Similarity became a narrative in their story's landscape, and it stood out like pain.
Out of his double breasted suit, Nayan shone like a prime bachelor designated for the good life. His eyes were on Khyati's nose-pin though, a flying bird. He came around with two glasses of red wine and offered one to her. Within minutes the room could sense their building chemistry. From a distance Kriti tried to stop herself from the overpowering lash of jealously -- this time she had decided to try and restrain.
That night Kriti spent her most restless hours seeing Khyati go with Nayan. Meanwhile, as things were meant to be, inch by inch the proximity between them diminished. It was Nayan's living room couch that finally found them in their sweaty embrace of passion. Around dawn when the wine was beginning to mist away, Nayan came over Khyati and kissed her all over -- her eyes, ears, lips and nose.
To cut a long story short, Khyati was probably having the time of life, and it was only a matter of time till the beautiful mist would blind us all.
Two years down the lane as Mrs & Mr Nayan, who could say similarities would no longer remain the narrative of their conjugal story's landscape? The flying bird of Kyati's nosepin was used well by Nayan, Kriti wears it now on the inside of her right ear. The death of a twin is miserable, but murder? One could not quite say. In a successful voodoo attempt, Kriti settled for Nayan, and now Nayan manages the new label "Nayan-Kriti." After Khyati, it was a natural handover.
Who could call off the tension in a short story, my dear? Mists and memories clear to reveal moments.
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