A strange silence lingers in Ehraan's room.
It's larger than the living room, walls painted off-white, with a double bed covered in a plain, light-blue bedsheet to one side, two wooden closets along the adjacent wall, and a bookshelf with an array of books on art and painting. The wooden doors of the closet have photos of Ehraan with his wife and daughter, all stuck at angles, all smiling. Ehraan rises from his bed and walks out without saying a word. An easel stands in the corner, with a white satin cloth covering the canvas. "Is that —?"
"Yes," his mother says.
I step towards it but sense movement behind me and stop.
It's Ehraan, his pensive gaze fixed on the easel.
"Can she?" His mother tugs at his shoulder.
He exhales, switches the light over the easel, and walks to the canvas. He looks at me and flips the satin over the canvas.
It's a young girl's face, head held high, with an expression of euphoria; no, maybe pain. Her hair is dark brown, flowing, a few strands wrapped around her face, each so detailed it feels like it's moving.
The face bears a stark resemblance to the little girl's photograph on the wall, her thin lips stretched in a careless smile with a missing tooth visible. Her eyes are reflective and so alive as though they'll blink if I move. Will they?
Ehraan offers his hand, guides me two steps to my left, and points at the painting.
My breath locks in my sternum. The painting has morphed, and the little girl's face seems to have grown into a woman's face, her eyes melancholic, the face still high but with a strange longing. Something stirs inside me, grows ― a living emotion. Hurt? Love? Peace? I don't know what to label the sudden yearning inside me.
I side-step, lean closer, and again it's the little girl. I take half a step to my left to spot the transition point. For a fleeting moment, I see the little girl's euphoria shift to the woman's yearning. "How?"
"Visual emotionalism and ," he says, stepping closer to the painting, and I follow. "Feel this." He guides my hand over the canvas.
The surface is coarse, the thick texture of each brush stroke so delicate that I can feel the strands of the girl's hair on my fingertips, the smooth skin, the bulge of the lips, the glint in the eyes. I follow the two thick red lines slashed across the painting, the paint protruding over the canvas as if he's dipped his finger in thick red paint and slashed it from top to bottom, a strange imperfection in what is perfect craftsmanship. "These slashes?"
"Imperfections signify the artist's flaws and fragility. Make the emotions in the painting real." He lowers his head and walks out of the room.
His mother steps closer. "He named this painting Aahna. Existence."
"But the face? It shifts?"
"Nisha and Aahna." She points at a photo on the cupboard.
"Wife and Daughter."
She nods and returns the satin back over the canvas.
"But impasto can't create such transitions." I am still staring at the satin over the canvas.
"He painted it for over a year after the accident. Never again. You like it?"
"Will he part with it?" I reach for the satin, wanting to flip, to feel what the painting triggered inside me. But his mother walks out, and I follow.
Ehraan is on the balcony with his back to us, staring out, his hands in his pockets.
"I have never seen anything like this before," I say, my eyes gravitating toward his room.
"Thank you."
His mother walks to him, "She wants it for her gallery."
"No."
"But —"
"It's not for sale."
"It's okay, Auntie," I interject, feeling the pain he is trying to suppress. I turn to the door, glancing at his room, hoping for one last look at his painting.
"That painting has tied you to a past that won't change, Ehraan." I can hear his mother's murmur. "Let it go."
"It's Nisha and Aahna." His words halt me at the door and I turn towards them. "I can't lose them again."
"I am...sorry." A solid block of guilt slides through my chest, and I exit the door.
"Wait, Reena." His mother calls after me.
I hobble on one foot and, fortunately, get the sandals on. "I'm really sorry for putting him through this, Auntie."
"It's not your fault. I thought this was his chance to return to his art."
"He needs time, I guess." I wave goodbye and press the elevator button, but it's busy on a lower floor. I push the button again, relieved to see the up-arrow light on the panel.
The phone rings in my purse — it's Revati.
"Hey, Revati. Listen, Ehraan has a painting, but —"
"Reena..." Her voice is hoarse, almost a whisper. I don't know why my hand trembles.
"W...what?"
"Nia."
A sudden panic shudders through me. "Nia?"
"Come to the Manipal Hospital, Old Airport Road."
"Is Nia okay?" The elevator stops with a thump, and I grab the elevator grill, but it won't move. I yank at the grill. "Open, damn it."
"Accident. 100 Feet Road. Come quick. Doctor —"
"WHAT!" The elevator judders, and its electric whine grows as it rises, the cables visible through the grills. "No, no, no. Is she okay? Revati?" I press the elevator button repeatedly and squeeze the phone against my ear. Revati is off the phone, but I can hear clamour on the line, someone shouting hurried footsteps. "REVATI?" Oh, God! Please. "REV —" the line disconnects.
I feel sapped, light, too light. A cold tingle prickles on my back, and I sense my heartbeat in my ears. I reach for the elevator grill but can't seem to grip it. A figure stirs in my peripheral vision, but it's all whirling around. Something wraps around my waist and grabs my shoulder. I turn my gaze toward the green eyes. — Help!
***
