The Moonstruck Columns

Of Enchantments

Years later when he was asked if he believed in enchantments, he realised that he had always known the answer. It lay concealed in the mornings when he would wake up to find her still asleep.

In his head, he could feel himself present right in that moment or moments, as he recalled – all of them felt the same, blended seamlessly into one unified moment, intensified a billion times.

She lay there calm and peaceful. Seeing her asleep, nobody could ever guess how lively and talkative she is when she’s awake. But she had no makeup on, no mascara, no red-carpet dress, with her beautiful, waist-length, walnut-brown hair tousled all over the pillow in different directions. But there wasn’t a soul who could care less; there wasn’t a thief who could steal the beauty away from her, or from the eyes that was staring at her as if she was eternity crammed into human form. The moment had freezed and dismantled into a billion pieces and he was savouring them on the tip of his tongue, one at a time.

He carefully moved to take in his hand a lock of her hair that had fallen over her calm, closed eyes and he tucked it behind her ear ever so softly for he was scared that the slightest touch could wake her up. But she didn’t even twitch and that seemed to relieve him immensely. He wondered as he stared at her, dreamy-eyed. He was leaning on the pillow on his elbow his head resting on his shoulder, tilted slightly, as he ran his finger through her hair and on occasions, nonchalantly twirled them into minuscule silk curls.

He had always loved her hair in an extremely special way. He loved the fact that she loved her hair so dearly. He loved it best the way it was now, messy and beautifully tangled with the smell of morning and love combined into a hypothetical elixir that even the philosopher’s stone would fail to brew. He loved that those tiny curls at certain angles were so silky that it could reflect anything. And most curiously, he wondered that he could play with her hair all he wanted without even waking her up. It was just so… Perfect, yes ‘perfect’ was the word; he made a mental note, the definition of the word if somebody cared to ask him in future.

She lay ever so intricately in the bed amidst his morning dreams, he hadn’t realised when she had unconsciously grabbed his hand and had curled closer to him as if she was right where she belonged, right where she felt the safest of all the place in the universe, right where her home was.

It was that moment, when she was the most beautiful and the best part was, she wasn’t even trying. Like enchantments being cast everywhere, in every way possible. There was magic in the mere fact that they should exist, meant to be. There was magic residing inside her in wistful abundance. There was magic in the way he kept falling in love with her, with these kind of mornings, everyday, all over again.

Know The Writer!