Ever since I abandoned it in the store room of my house, Tringy has been sitting there, in the shadowy attic, gathering dust.
Years have
passed, but it has been sitting there, unclothed, because I gave its heavy
polyester black zipper bag to a college friend who forgot to return it. And
then the college ended and Tringy was left here all alone, with no support
whatsoever to cling to, no loved one to latch onto in life’s challenging times.
Except me, of course. Its curvilinear model-like body, though as toned as it
has always been, has now turned into a playground where dust motes gather every
now and then in “gossamer” gatherings, especially when I leave the house for a
long family vacation. Yet, even after all these years, Tringy hasn’t lost its
irresistible charm that turns me into a besotted poet each time I look at it. As
I put my slippered feet into the store room, I cannot help but feel too
enchanted to not blush. As I behold Tringy’s lissome, string-slinging neck leaning
on its headstock and its slinky S-shaped waist stretching like the hypotenuse
of a right-angled triangle against the perpendicular wall, a cesspool of
dopamine molecules rushes through my bloodstream, flitting straight into my
brain where streams of dots start glowing with passion, causing me to feel as
if I am in love. Intoxicated in the vertigo of its feminine beauty, I wreak
havoc on the dust motes’ party, slapping them with the piece of a ripped towel
and blowing fiery winds from between my lips. I pull Tringy closer to me and start
plucking on its rosette with my electric fingers. Clutching its waist in the
embrace of my right arm, I make its strings dance to the song we danced to,
together, when we met for the first time ever. My mom unboxes an old suitcase
and memories rise into space; wafting, swirling in spirals I cannot yet see. When
Tringy and I are done dancing to the nostalgic song, I pull it out from between
my arms and lay it down in its homely spot. Tiny dust motes hang in the air,
hopeful to taste the luscious remnants of melody still vibrating inside its
sound hole. But not anymore. Mom steps into the room and tosses away an old
chiffon sari on Tringy’s goddess body. So Tringy now stands there, in a pose
perfect for the role of heroine in a Karan Johar’s romantic flick, chiffon sari
grasping its sylphlike body in a valley of pindrop silence; surrounded by
nothing but a giant box of photo albums and all those discarded things.
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