The Potrait

They sat on a throne; digitally ornate and far too phony for anything real. An untimely pair, thrown into a relationship that ought not do worse than last. At least. She sat, wrapped in yards of a forgotten colour, remembered by a benevolent photographer. He granted her a chemical blue.And he sat cross-legged, in thick black glasses; his eyes reflected an Indian dream in a land that wasn’t theirs. But he had come to terms with it; he already sang the King’s praise then. She didn’t know what it meant. Neither did he.A discernible distance between the two spoke books.A refusal to transit. An invisible childish blush that the flash blinded. A distant fear.A sincere distaste of pointlessness. A Marxist rage. An assumed Etonian extravagance; of thoughts and views.And there they sat, on a throne; in a wishful palace; with a delicious staircase that led to some place far more delectable in possibilities. The newness of the past rang in her ears. She could hear again. She could see again. She could smell the jasmines. She could feel the sudden warmth of lights on her hands. She could remember the same dreams.She wiped an absent layer of dust on the print and struggled twice before she could hang it up on the nail bent with the past and present.She searched in vain for her treasured twinkle that came with time.She recoiled in recognition; it could not have been her.