Sketchstory No. 8 - 'Pratima' by Roopali Babhulkar Dhamane

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Her ebony black wavy hair, edging ivory, shimmered iridescent under the faint rays of the vermillion sun; her visage pallid, fading into the darkness. Her eyes narrow and discerning, gazed hazily into the once verde garden now blanketed in light. For the first time in many moons had she received a chance to spend time with herself, mesmerised amidst her own mind. Silently humming the surreal tunes drafted in her mind; the next moment she was herself, yet twenty years ago.


Gently touching her face, laden in youth, she was at the posh bungalow of her newly wed husband. It had been a traumatic experience, leaving her beloved parents from her petite town and advancing to an unexplored dimension in her life. As she metamorphosed into the multicoloured butterfly at her new home, she spread her wings, accepting numerous roles as her own. Beneath her euphoric personality, her hard working soul thrived, lifting spirits wherever she ventured; spreading joy behind her footsteps. Claiming the place of the cherished daughter-in-law, she became the favourite of her in laws. 


As time ticked along, so did the growth of her husband’s inherited business. Being the proud resident of the niche household, her ways had developed into poised, gallant strokes of fluid confident motion, with utmost courtesy. Even though now, laden with jewellery and expensive cotton sarees, her resourceful persona glowed. 


Being the humanitarian that she was, empathetically, she started providing aid and assistance to the workers at her husband’s factory to ensure a stable standard of living for them too. After the birth of two bundles of sheer ecstasy, Vaibhavi and Jay, the pages of her life flew by, as her whole world revolved around them: their welfare, exercise, health and education… Gradually, Vaibhavi started with her M.B.B.S and Jay was venturing into the USA for his university course. 


Finally in 20 years, she had earned time: time to rest and gaze into the fading horizon. ‘Which one of these IMAGES of me is a true one?’ she pondered, immersed in the deep pool of thoughts in her mind, ‘A mother, a daughter-in-law or a wife or me?’ She was satisfied with all the roles she has played in her life, yet there had been an unfulfilled urge inside her. 

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She sighed, reached the corner of her room, she held her tanpura, just a decorating piece in her room for years, which she gently strung with a stroke of her hand, and then again, as she strummed the melodies, Pratima felt like the blissful child whose only passion as a young girl had been music…

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