Mannequin

By Malvika Jayakumar

It was a little disconcerting, his gaze.

Unashamedly penetrating into the layers of my body,

And I, with my head hung

Felt trunkless, breathless but for a face

Two faces rather-

One bold and transfixed

The other just a blank stare,

Indifferent about being devoured.

His smooth temple then contorted into a dirt path,

The invader softened into a philosopher,

Perhaps wondering about the expenses of my favours

Or studying my speckled skin jutted with undulating features,

A nose too thick and wide like mud caked walls

And fat lips that lie indolent like water buffaloes.

All in all I was a duller pastiche than the other mannequins,

Yet the buyer chose to bed me for the night.

The mist in his spectacles blinded his hungry eyes

And he started his love sonnet expressing his affection for me

With hands stringing words into imaginary air puppets.

It was easy to be awed by his sophistry

When one has a hazy personal history.

I was a bastard in every sense

With a mother whose legacy doused before I was touched.

Maybe he saw that helplessness in me,

Incomplete, blurry, undefined, discarded without an identity,

While the painted mannequins hung named,

Their entire bodies perfectly framed.

In his own words, I was like water,

Cohabiting whichever harem he built,

Whether shoddy or exquisite.

The courtship was him and so were the feelings

I was just the palate onto which he pasted them.

And yet he made me feel the greens of my brow the grey of my cheek,

The scarlet of my scar and the red of my lips,

In a way I had never envisaged.

His mouth opened a mirror which stared back an opposite twin,

In short, he made me beautiful.

The moles on my breast suddenly wanted to be touched,

This foetus became a woman only for him.

His gaze is now welcoming,

That which pierced me before now clothed me layer by layer.

Transfixed, he inches closer with words tumbling out

And I was oblivious but for the misty contours of his eyes behind those glasses.

His right fist unwound and five tentacles trembled,

He gently lifted it towards me

And I, anticipating, to feel the fleshy dunes of his palm.

.

.

.

He left the premises soon after.

Left his notebook behind lying right beneath me.

I was alone again.

He never touched me.

We came close almost embraced each other.

But the guard arrived and yelled,

“touching the exhibits is strictly prohibited.”

By Malvika Jayakumar