Henna, A Memory by Asif Sultan Matta
Henna, A Memory Asif Sultan Matta Sunday, 26-06-2016 Her hands spread, cupped in mine. Henna was being painted in them. I wished it took longer time to get her done with that, as I loved to fix her scarf--often without a need-- and itch her nose when it felt so. Her perspired face--because of hot weather or perhaps her nervousness--I wiped with my hankerchief, though my naked fingers were more involed than my hankerchief, intentionally. Best ever time it was to care for her as I desired. Like those, it was, who flank with a bride or a groom embellishing them too much carefully, even to wipe a tiny vapour on their face or streighten a wee wrinkle in their dress. I had the full previlege. The privilege to carress and care. The privilege reached its zenith when, I, compulsorily but luckily, held her feet and carefully slid them, one by one, slowly, into her shoes that she'd taken off because of sweat in it, before she sat. And she was relucta...