28th Feb 2026, Morning Meera gently pulls the lower lid down and runs the kohl stick along the inner rim of her eye. The black soot makes her eyes look larger than they are, adds drama to the ordinary.
“It’s ‘Phyto-Kohl’ line” Her aunt had said with immense pride, “Way cheaper there, at the Dubai duty free.” A gift.
Her phone beeps. She pushes the nib a bit deeper, extending it past the outer corner of the eye.
Beep.
She angles the kohl stick at 45 degrees and draws… beep, beep, beep.
The device buzzes like a bunny on red bull. Multiple notifications tumble upon each other, trying to squeeze themselves in, fighting for screen space. Her hand wavers, dragging a small tail, an extra unwanted line.
She groans, picking up her phone. The messages pour out,
‘Stock markets plummet as US-Israel have launched massive air and missile strikes across Iranian territory.’ ‘Iran has responded with ballistic missiles.’ ‘Major disruption at international airports, leaving tens of thousands of commuters stranded worldwide.’
“Travel chaos.” Meera mumbles, skimming through the messages, reading the headlines blooming between weather updates and cooking videos. She avoids looking at the gory pictures of people lying in body bags, momentarily feeling sad for the world and its mad men. But there is no urgency in her. It’s just news, like any other news. This war is not her war. Empathy did not warrant responsibility.
Disabling the annoying beep sounds, she turns towards the mirror and dabs at the erring black line. It smudges at the corner in shades of greys, turning a bit blue, darkening the eye like a bruise.
28th Feb 2026, Mid-day Beep.
‘Flight Status Highlights: Nearly 8,000 passengers stranded in Qatar; over 250 flights cancelled’. Her eyes take in the push notification as she goes back to scribbling numbers; her work sheet won’t write itself even if the world went up in flames.
She attaches the document, typing out a quick email, hoping that the war doesn’t linger. Her upcoming trip is all paid for, and it is hard to be excited about traveling with the looming uncertainty.
Beep.
‘Indigo starts limited flights as Emirates, Etihad and Qatar Airways remain suspended.’
Meera sighs, reapplying her make up- lip gloss, bronzer, and the kohl along her eyes. She studies the soot stick in her hand; marveling, how beauty could rise from charred burnt things.
Beep.
She flips the phone face down.
28th Feb 2026, Evening Last of February and Mumbai is already a cauldron of churning heat. The sea breeze adds on to the feeling of inhaling warm fish breath. It sits on the tongue, fills the lungs.
Car behind honks incessantly. She scrolls, as she waits for the cars to move, they don’t. Together, they thrum like the appendages of a large beast, mid-orgasm, hungry for release. It’s been a long day.
‘A luxury hotel on Palm Jumeirah has caught fire.’ A massive fire fills the screen as the subtitles run on repeat in calm fonts: strategic strike, escalation, collateral damage, fallen debris.
“Oh, you poor rich people.” She taps the sad emoji, moving on.
‘We stand in solidarity with the country we call home.’ Another message flashes at the top of her screen. Distracted, she opens the write up, it’s too long. She clicks ‘a heart’ on the post and shifts to Instagram. It is easier to watch than read on commute.
A viral video of downtown Dubai, shows people relentlessly jabbing at their car horns in the streets in warning, like air raids. The loud sound pushes through her headphones, hurting her head. It mixes with the honking on the street, while Adele sings ‘when the sky falls’ on the radio.
She scrolls down.
A radiant emaciated woman smiles at her, wearing a ‘Mystic plum kohl’ on her sultry eyes. Meera saves the video, ‘when did Kohl start coming in reds?’ She smiles, and her phone rings.
“Meera… your aunt…”
Her aunt loved airports. It was an ongoing family joke. She collected boarding passes how people collected stamps, always on the move. ‘Airports are cool. Everyone is going somewhere.’ She had said once to a wide-eyed Meera. Ever since, she would send pictures from distant destinations, bring interesting souvenirs, tell wild stories and Meera loved her.
“Your aunt had changed her tickets… was transiting… this route was efficient, affordable.” Meera listened to her mother’s voice, halting and strained. “There were only three casualties at the airport… due to fallen debris… She was at the duty free, next to a window when the glass shattered in. I am sorry.”
Meera hung up. She did not understand how or when, this war had slipped out of her phone and into her life.
The traffic eased and the cars began to move in a trembling surge of release. The song changed, Lennon’s words trickled through her shock,
‘Imagine there’s no countries…
Nothing to kill or die for…
‘Imagine all the people, living life in peace.’
Grief rearranged her sense of geography. Wars were not contained by borders. They travelled via data veins and cables, pushed along flight paths, entered through custom gates. Hidden under the guise of harmless notifications- they spread hate, and a sense of false safety.
‘Transit’ The word suggests impermanence. Her aunt had been in transit when the war found her, so had she, when the news of her death slipped in between the honking and the heat, her ignorance and the truth. ‘Empathy warrants responsibility. War concerns all of us.’
Meera receives a parcel from her late aunt. It holds a postcard and a gift.
‘Mystic Plum Kohl stick’.
The war continues still. The number of causalities has crossed a thousand.
With unsteady hands she gently pulls the lower lid down and runs the new kohl stick along the inner rim of her eye. A stray tear lingers at her lashes, she brushes it away smudging the corner of the dark soot line.
It bleeds red
Shivangi Gajwani Jain
Shivangi Gajwani Jain is a practicing dentist, published academic, and a lifelong storyteller. Her work has been published in The Adelaide Lit Magazine and The Hemlock Journal. Her poem "Phoenix" and a short story "The depravity of this world" were shortlisted for Wingword poetry competition and The Mumbai literature festival respectively. Her interests range from poetry to fantasy, lyricism to epic, introspective memoirs to anime (Ghibli enthusiast) and beyond. She lives in Mumbai with her family.
