The Purple Nightgown

There it was, nestled between two old blouses I no longer fit into, my nightgown. I stopped cleaning and stared at it. Its bright colour seemed to talk to me from the deep darkness of my almirah, whispering my name seductively; a whisper I no longer wished to hear.

I never really liked it. Amma packed it into my trunk along with all the new clothes she had bought for me. "It's the latest design, kanna," she said unmindful of my protests. I could put up with the colour, a deep purple but what grossed me out were the yellow flowers and the white laces on the neck and sleeves. Three white buttons ran down the front of the nighgown which had more laces in some weird zigzag pattern. For some reason, Amma liked it and for some reason I took it with me.

I never wore it and definitely not when Vishal was home. He disliked nightgowns, even the seductively alluring flimsy one I bought on a shopping trip to LifeStyle. "Lingerie is a marketing strategy," he claimed. All those tips I received from my girlfriends on romantic and tantalising summer evenings lay forgotten in a deep corner, just like the purple nightgown.

I pulled it out from its hiding place and ran my hands through it. It felt soft, the laces were still new and the flowers were glaringly yellow. I ran my hands through the front, the white buttons conspicuous by their absence. I buried my face in it, taking in the moldy smell of a memory buried for 25 years; the memory of a passion that couldn't wait another lifetime.