Creative writing The Disappearance Essay Example For Students

Creative writing The Disappearance Essay At first when they heard about the disappearance they didnt believe it. Why, we saw her the other day at the Ram Ratan grocery store they proclaimed. Yes, didnt she wave to us yesterday with her little boy? He looked just like her. We spoke to her the other day, she had that salwar-kameez on, yes she never did wear English clothes.  Terrible others whined. Its getting so that nobodys safe here in London these days.  Because thats what everyone thought. Crime. It must have been.  How else could an Indian woman in a bright flowered lime sari and Nike walking shoes just disappear? So thinking the worst, that maybe Zeneve had been abducted, raped or maybe even murdered, her husband reported her missing that very night.  Shed been out for her evening walk he told the police. She took one everyday after he got back from the office. Yes, yes always alone. She said it was her time alone, time for herself. Away from the bubbling curries in their non-stick pans as they hissed on the cooker, away from the never ending chores that had to be done, her own tranquil world where the domesticated wife was non-existentthats how she had put it to him. (He didnt quite understand that, but was happy to watch his little boy play football with him, perhaps, until she returned to serve them dinner.) Did you folks have a quarrel? the policeman inquired with a stern look on his podgy face as he looked up from his notepad. No the husband retorted, looking directly into his eyes, of course we didnt.  Later, he would think about what the policeman had asked, while he sat in front of his computer in his office, or while he lay in the bed, which still seemed to smell of her. (But surely that was his imagination-the linen had been washed already.) He had told the truth about them not having a quarrel, hadnt he? (He prided himself on being an honest man, he often told his son how important it was not to lie, see what happened to Pinocchios nose.) And even now when the boy asked him where Mama was, he didnt say she had gone on a trip, as some of his friends wives had advised him. I dont know, he rejoined. And when the boys thin face would crumple he held him in his lap awkwardly and tried to stroke his hair, like he had seen his wife do, but he couldnt bring himself to say what the boy needed to hear Shell be back soon. So over and over again he simply exclaimed I dont know. They hadnt really had a fight. She wasnt, thank God, the quarrelsome type, like some of his friends wives. Quiet. Thats how she was, at least around him, although sometimes when he came home unexpectedly, he would hear her singing to her son, her voice slightly off-key but full and poised. Or laughing as she chased him around the family room, Mamas going to get you, get you, both of them shrieking with sheer exuberance, until they saw him. Hush now, she would tell the boy, settle down. And they would walk over sedately to give him his welcome home kiss.  He couldnt complain though. Wasnt that what he had specified when his mother started asking, When are you getting married? Im getting old. I want to see a grandson before I die. If you can find me a quiet, pretty girl, he wrote back to her in his letters, not brash like Calcutta girls nowadays, not with too many western ideas. Someone who would be relieved to have her husband make the major decisions. But she had to be smart, at least a year of college, someone he could introduce to his friends with pride.  Hed flown to Calcutta to view several suitable girls that his mother had picked out. But now, thinking back, he can only remember her.  She had sat, head bowed, jasmine plaited into her flowing, black hair, silk sari draped modestly over her shoulders, just like all the other prospective brides hed seen. Nervous, hed thought, yearning to be chosen. .u652106672dc280c8da9ce280869227ad , .u652106672dc280c8da9ce280869227ad .postImageUrl , .u652106672dc280c8da9ce280869227ad .centered-text-area { min-height: 80px; position: relative; } .u652106672dc280c8da9ce280869227ad , .u652106672dc280c8da9ce280869227ad:hover , .u652106672dc280c8da9ce280869227ad:visited , .u652106672dc280c8da9ce280869227ad:active { border:0!important; } .u652106672dc280c8da9ce280869227ad .clearfix:after { content: ""; display: table; clear: both; } .u652106672dc280c8da9ce280869227ad { display: block; transition: background-color 250ms; webkit-transition: background-color 250ms; width: 100%; opacity: 1; transition: opacity 250ms; webkit-transition: opacity 250ms; background-color: #95A5A6; } .u652106672dc280c8da9ce280869227ad:active , .u652106672dc280c8da9ce280869227ad:hover { opacity: 1; transition: opacity 250ms; webkit-transition: opacity 250ms; background-color: #2C3E50; } .u652106672dc280c8da9ce280869227ad .centered-text-area { width: 100%; position: relative ; } .u652106672dc280c8da9ce280869227ad .ctaText { border-bottom: 0 solid #fff; color: #2980B9; font-size: 16px; font-weight: bold; margin: 0; padding: 0; text-decoration: underline; } .u652106672dc280c8da9ce280869227ad .postTitle { color: #FFFFFF; font-size: 16px; font-weight: 600; margin: 0; padding: 0; width: 100%; } .u652106672dc280c8da9ce280869227ad .ctaButton { background-color: #7F8C8D!important; color: #2980B9; border: none; border-radius: 3px; box-shadow: none; font-size: 14px; font-weight: bold; line-height: 26px; moz-border-radius: 3px; text-align: center; text-decoration: none; text-shadow: none; width: 80px; min-height: 80px; background: url(https://artscolumbia.org/wp-content/plugins/intelly-related-posts/assets/images/simple-arrow.png)no-repeat; position: absolute; right: 0; top: 0; } .u652106672dc280c8da9ce280869227ad:hover .ctaButton { background-color: #34495E!important; } .u652106672dc280c8da9ce280869227ad .centered-text { display: table; height: 80px; padding-left : 18px; top: 0; } .u652106672dc280c8da9ce280869227ad .u652106672dc280c8da9ce280869227ad-content { display: table-cell; margin: 0; padding: 0; padding-right: 108px; position: relative; vertical-align: middle; width: 100%; } .u652106672dc280c8da9ce280869227ad:after { content: ""; display: block; clear: both; } READ: Although the Prologue clearly refers to ' a pair of star-crossed lovers', is the action of the play the result of Fate or Chance - or both perhaps?   EssayBut when she had looked up at him gracefully, thats when he fell in love with her.  Thats when he knew she was the one.  Her heart-shaped face and dusky radiant complexion created a flow amidst the room. Her sultry, almond eyes met his, filled with dreams, aspirations, needs to be fulfilled. The rosebud lips, outlined with a deep magenta and retroussed nose complemented her plucked eyebrows as she sat confidentalmost disinterested, as if she were wondering if he would make a suitable spouse.  For him it was love at first sight. This sophisticated, incandescent, credulous woman had stolen his heart and turned it into candle waxhe knew she was the one.  They were married within a week in spite of his mothers protests. (Had she caught that same look?) That something about the girl just didnt feel right, his mother had grumbled.