As he began to tell Asma about the ways of an aashiq, Abu Bakar noticed red spouting from a sudden rent in the green aachal of the young woman before him, and he, himself wanting to smear his whole body in that color; wanting to dunk and glide and swim, like the seeds of a ripe chilli, in the juice of Asma’s tongue, before wringing a duck’s neck and resting blissfully on her tender flesh. But Abu Bakar’s bliss did not last. Asma whimpered, “But he won’t even look at me. I give him so many signs, I beckon to him, but he does not respond. What kind of man is he!”
Abu Bakar asked, “Are you doing everything I told you?”
“Why wouldn’t I? Take a look.” Pulling the sari below her waist, Asma showed him a copper amulet tied with a seven-ply thread, and said, “For three days, I did not eat any shaak, anything sour, or rice unless freshly cooked. Only after that, I have tied the amulet. But it did not work.”
“Was there anything different about him, the day you tied it?”
“That night, he came home late from Ostagar’s porch. I served him dinner. He went to bed immediately afterwards. O baba,...Read more
