Roses are red and so is blood

The Narrative of Kol Kalkut

Chapter One

When Idhil got married, I was a little shocked. I couldn’t quite believe it. Maybe it was because she still seemed so young. Or maybe—just maybe—part of me had quietly imagined a future with her. In our teenage years, we shared many thoughts, many foolish musings. At nineteen, she became a wife.

I had known Idhil for many years. We lived in the same estate. Growing up, she wasn’t that extraordinary, but the years passed by, shaping her into one remarkable young woman. I’ll be honest—I never had any chance with her. Maybe she saw me as an older brother. I knew her mother, and I took part in burying her father. I still remember standing at his graveside, dropping the final handfuls of soil. Quite an unforgettable memory.

So, Idhil married. The man she chose was someone I never imagined she would. For one, I thought he lacked sense. I never liked him. He was of brown in complexion, slightly obese and while I realize now that weight doesn’t define a person, back then I saw him through the narrow lens of my own bias. He seemed like someone who relied more on his mother’s thriving business than on his own ambition.

Idhil, on the other hand, was radiant. Slim, with a fair complexion, a delicate nose, and striking features. But it wasn’t just her appearance—she had a spark, a joyful, bubbly presence that lit up any room she entered.

Then I left the country. I was gone for more than half a decade, caught up in my studies and the demands of building a future. Marriage wasn’t an option when your life is consumed by serious academic pursuits.

When I returned, time had raced ahead. Idhil, the girl I once knew, was now a grown woman nearing her thirties. She was the mother of two tall boys and had fully stepped into the role of a parent. Life had moved on—for her, for me, for all of us.

My interactions with Idhil—now fully grown into motherhood—were always benign and infrequent. I never involved myself in people’s lives beyond surface-level exchanges. Ours were just that: casual bumps at the market, the occasional hello, a polite “how’s everything?”

Then one day, I saw her again.

She looked… different. The vibrant, energetic Idhil I had always known was gone. In her place stood someone quieter, withdrawn, almost unrecognizable. She wore a mask—not just the kind for health, but one of emotional concealment. When she noticed me, she quickly looked away and disappeared into the shelves of the supermarket.

I continued my shopping, puzzled but trying not to read too much into it. But fate, unpredictable as ever, brought us face to face again.

This time, I saw it—just beneath her right eye. A bruise. Dark, angry, and unmistakably recent.

“Idhil, what happened?” I asked gently, genuinely concerned.

“It’s nothing,” she replied, turning her gaze away.

But I knew she was lying.

“Since when do you wear a mask?” I asked, half-joking, trying to lighten the mood. “Are you hiding something?”

And that’s when everything unraveled.

Like a dam breaking, she collapsed into sobs. Tears streamed down both cheeks. Then she dropped to the floor so suddenly, I feared she had fainted. I rushed to her side, trying to help her up.

“Idhil… please, O God—what’s happened?”

People around us began to gather. Confused stares turned into assumptions. Some muttered, others pointed. One voice accused me of assault. Another called me shameless, berating me for supposedly hitting my wife in public.

They thought we were a couple.

It was chaos. Confusing. Humiliating.