From his gaze, she must shirk.
She would not be ensnared.
To every stranger, a little trust she owes.
He seems like a friend for a while..
He has to be a nice guy.
She flees from the hands that clutch.
She approaches their spot with resolve unsteady.
Her attacker has left her to her woe.
Someone peel off the skin where he touched me.
But still feels dirty and uncouth.
Every man is guided by lust.
I will not rest until he dies.
“What rubbish is this?” Arnav said in a dangerously low tone as he looked at the design chart spread on the glass top of his work table. Completely still, his fingers laced together and his elbows resting on the supports of his revolving armchair, his face was a mask hiding the fury that was making him practically vibrate. He could almost see red spots in front of his eyes and his head felt hot with anger…
She was screaming. And even in her dream, she knew she needed to stop.
But she had to reach him and they wouldn’t listen to her, he wouldn’t listen to her unless she screamed at the top of her lungs. Her heart was sinking in her chest as the boy became smaller and smaller at the end of the dark tunnel, the distance between them ever-growing. Her bloodcurdling screams drowned all other noise and she flailed around in her sleep.
Her chest was rapidly tightening with anxiety. Chills were running down her spine and she couldn’t breathe. Her wrist was being gripped sharply and try as she did, she couldn’t wrench it out of the grasp…
There was a girl in his mother’s private parlour.
Seated on the old, antique carpet with her legs tucked under herself, she seemed to fit perfectly into the picture. And Arnav stared at her with widened eyes, startled by her presence and captivated by her persona.
Surrounded by ornate armchairs and cushioned footstools in varying shades of orange, red and shiny brown with freshly polished wooden edges, she complemented the traditional Indian feel of the room in her own little outfit of red chudidar leggings and white kurti, complete with a fluttery red dupatta…