nine-yard by kavya ramanan
afterwards I’m not sure which sari I chose because by the time I pointed at one of them I could only see the red-gold glow of your cheeks in the lamplight after I blew out the candles last time I wore a sari on my birthday. it’s in the crackling bag on my lap but taking a look now would be one step too far when I could find myself looking at gold swirls on gaudy red or green the color you tried to drown yourself in on your eighteenth birthday, full of doomsday visions of adulthood. there are only so many colors a bride can wear on her wedding day if she doesn’t want to provoke whispers and for me there are already too many of those to push the envelope any further, but I will have to blind my eyes against the flaming light staring in to avoid seeing the rust-red shirt you wore that night, too low-cut to release my gaze, every time my eyes accidentally see the mehendi that was put on my hands and arms and feet yesterday. I wasn’t there; I was in a garden I have never been in but I didn’t need to invent the details because you were there, right there, just behind that plant or this bush, hiding in the mouths of the flowers, to be found if only I could see you. Kavya Ramanan ‘15 is setting sail at last. 25