Henna-Stained Apology

A Crimson Monsoon

Tara sat quietly beside Nina, gently applying henna to her hands. Her face was stiff, her eyes downcast, and not even a flicker of a smile graced her lips.

Nina leaned closer, whispering,

 "What's wrong with you? Why do you look so down?"

Tara replied with a flat, cold voice,

 "Nothing. I'm fine."

But Nina frowned. Tara had been the most excited about the Henna ceremony—she'd chosen everyone's sarees and panjabis, matching colors down to the thread. So why the sudden silence?

"You sure you're not feeling sick or something?" Nina asked again.

"I told you, I'm fine, Nina. Really." Tara's tone was firmer this time.

Nina didn't press further, but she was clearly puzzled. What had happened to her cheerful little cousin?

Just ten minutes ago, Tara had stormed out of the room—her face flushed, eyes burning. Lian had said something that struck her like a slap, and she hadn't waited to hear the rest. He was trying to explain, but she was already gone.

Now though, doubt crept in. She knew Lian well. He wasn't the type to secretly spy on her or look at her inappropriately. Maybe… he had just been joking. Maybe she'd misunderstood.

Back then, Lian's words had felt real—cutting even. But now, with time to breathe, she wasn't so sure anymore.

Loud music thumped from the speakers as a group of Nina's friends danced wildly. Their sarees were disheveled, pinned loosely, some nearly falling off. Tara could tell the elders weren't around—only cousins, and no one to scold them. If the grown-ups were here, the scene would have been very different.

Maybe Lian was referring to these girls earlier. They were bold, even reckless.

In the corner stood Tara's older brother Turjo, and their cousins Nuhash and Saif—sons of her younger aunt. They were busy chatting, paying no attention to the chaos in the hall.

Lian, the only child of their elder aunt, lived next door. The younger aunt's family had traveled from far away for the wedding. Since Tara's father had no siblings, she had no paternal cousins—only these maternal ones.

Tara continued applying henna silently. She couldn't do it alone, so she let Swarnali—her older cousin by a year and daughter of the younger aunt—help.

The dancing had finally stopped. Nina's friends slumped onto chairs, sweating and laughing.

Tara noticed Nina shifting uncomfortably and complaining,

 "How much longer? My legs are cramping!"

Tara looked at her sister calmly. Nina had never been the patient type.

"At least another half hour... maybe more," Tara replied softly.

But before she could finish her sentence, a sharp voice cut in.

 "Hey, Tara! Move! You've been hogging that seat forever. We haven't even gotten a single picture with Nina. Get up!"

It was Lian.

Startled, Tara looked up to see him standing with Nuhash and Saif. He didn't sound playful—he was clearly annoyed. She hadn't even noticed him entering. Wasn't he asleep earlier?

When she didn't respond, Lian barked again,

 "I said move! Where are we supposed to sit?"

Flustered, she stood up too quickly—and disaster struck. The open henna cone slipped from her hand, smearing a bright patch onto Lian's cream-colored panjabi — a traditional South Asian tunic, crisp and collar-fitted, flowing gracefully to his knees. The fabric had a subtle sheen, giving him a refined yet effortless charm — something between a ceremonial shirt and a robe, elegant in its simplicity yet rich in cultural pride.

Gasps all around. Her heart dropped.

"I'm so sorry!" she stammered, reaching out to wipe it with her hand, but only made it worse—now her hands were stained too.

Nina groaned,

 "Tara! Seriously? You ruined his outfit! Can't you get one thing right—"

Lian interrupted sharply, pulling out a tissue from his pocket. He wiped his clothes without looking at either of them.

 "It's fine."

Then he turned back to the group and joined the photo session.

Tara retreated to a corner, her face burning. Her henna was smeared, her hands sticky, and she had nothing to clean them with. Unlike Lian, she didn't walk around with tissues in her pocket.

Her eyes stung. Everything felt too loud, too bright, too overwhelming.

She looked at the clock—10:00 PM. She hadn't even applied henna on herself yet. She glanced toward the Henna tray. Empty. The girls had used it all up. The small cone in her hand had to be used for Nina. That meant… she wouldn't get any.

And at this hour, all shops would be closed. No one could go out and buy more.

Suddenly, she felt something press against her hand. Startled, she looked up.

It was Lian.

He gently took her stained hand and, with his handkerchief, carefully wiped the dried, crusty henna away.

His eyes stayed on her hand as he spoke—not cold, not angry—just quietly firm.

 "I didn't see anything earlier. The mirror thing? It was a joke, Tara. You freaked out over nothing."

She blinked.

 "Go look in your room. The dressing table's angled. From the bed, all you can see in the mirror is the balcony and the bathroom door—not you. You didn't even let me finish before running off. And for the record, I only got up after Swarna called me. When I saw you were dressed and everything, I snapped because the saree was out of place. I'm not sorry for that. Someone had to fix it."

He paused, then continued,

 "There were guests everywhere. Our flat was locked—Dad had the keys and he wasn't home. Your parents' room was full of guests. I had a headache. That's why I went to your room. Otherwise, I wouldn't have stepped in there."

He let go of her hand, slipped the handkerchief into his pocket, and wiped his forehead with the back of his palm. His eyes held a quiet ache.

Tara stood frozen, guilt crushing her. How could she have doubted him? Why had she been so foolish?

12:00 AM

Tara stepped out of the washroom, exhausted. Her makeup was gone, replaced by shadows of sadness on her face. Everyone else had gone to bed.

She was alone in her room—she couldn't share it with anyone. Nina and Swarnali were sharing a room, the boys were next door in the other flat. Her father and uncle were in Turjo's room, and her mother with her aunt. Only her room was empty.

She changed into a plain cotton salwar kameez, tied her hair in a messy bun. Her hands were bare—no henna. And no one to bring any now. The shops were closed. Everyone else had beautiful, colored palms—except her.

Sighing, she walked over to her study table and opened the drawer where she had left her phone. She didn't trust herself to carry it around during big events—she had already lost two phones that way.

As soon as she opened the drawer, her eyes widened.

A brand-new cone of henna lay right at the top.

Joy lit up her entire face. Gone was the sadness—replaced by a beaming smile.

She picked up the cone and turned on her phone. Immediately, a message notification popped up.

It was from Lian.

Just one line, written in Bengali script:

"Don't you dare show up tomorrow without your hands painted in Henna."

To Be Continued..