Neel, She called him.
Noori, He named her.
They decided to stick to names that didn't matter much to them or anyone else.
She was running from a horrible vision.
He was running from his existence.
She wished to fly.
He wished to be grounded.
Sh...
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A hush fell over the gallery, a reverent silence broken only by the soft murmur of hushed conversations. Indraneel, a shadow amongst shadows, moved through the crowd, his eyes sharp and observant. He was a phantom, a ghost, a man disguised in the plainest of clothes, a stark contrast to the vibrant, emotional canvases that lined the walls. Jaahan, the artist whose work they had come to witness.
He watched as people paused, their faces alight with a strange, almost unsettling recognition. They saw themselves in the swirling colors, the abstract forms that coalesced into raw human emotion. Emotions that Indraneel himself struggled to grasp. Anger, joy, sorrow, longing – they were all there, laid bare in the strokes of his brush, yet remained elusive to him. He was the architect of these feelings, but not their inhabitant.
He lingered by a particularly striking piece, a canvas of deep blues and turbulent greys, where fractured shapes seemed to scream in silent agony. 'The Shattered Mirror,' he'd titled it. A woman in a crimson dress stood before it, her hand pressed to her chest, her eyes glistening. Indraneel watched her, a flicker of something he couldn't quite name stirring within him. Was it empathy? Curiosity? He couldn't tell.
"Another triumph, Jaahan."
The voice, low and familiar, broke the silence. Indraneel turned to see Arjun, the gallery's collector and manager, his only confidant, standing beside him. Arjun's eyes, bright with pride, swept across the room. "They're eating it up. Every piece, a masterpiece. You've outdone yourself this time."
Indraneel merely nodded, his gaze returning to the crowd. He watched as they moved from painting to painting, their expressions shifting and changing like the very emotions he depicted. He saw their reflections, their vulnerabilities, their hidden desires. It was a strange, almost voyeuristic experience.
"'The Serpent's Embrace' just sold for thirty lakhs," Arjun continued, his voice laced with excitement. "Thirty lakhs, Indraneel! Can you believe it?"
Indraneel's lips curled into a faint, almost imperceptible smile. "They are merely paying for colors and canvas, Arjun."
Arjun sighed, a hint of exasperation in his voice. "You and your philosophies. It's not just colors, Indraneel. It's... it's the way you capture the human soul. They see something in your paintings, something they can't quite articulate."
Indraneel's gaze drifted to a young man, his face etched with a quiet sadness, staring intently at a painting of a lone figure standing against a stormy sky. 'The Exile,' he'd called it. He wondered what the man saw in that painting, what unspoken pain he recognized.
"They see what they wish to see," Indraneel said, his voice flat. "A reflection of their own desires, their own fears."
Arjun shook his head, a hint of frustration in his eyes. "You're too cynical, Indraneel. You create beauty, you evoke emotion. Can't you at least acknowledge that?"
