The old, grilled elevator feels odd, disconnected with time. It cranks and jerks all the way to the ninth floor of Ehraan's apartment complex. His nameplate is visible through the grill. This is so awkward; visiting artists to seek paintings that may not exist.
I pull, but the door doesn't budge. Bad omen? I yank hard, and it gives way. I rehearse the lines in my mind, clear my throat, and ring the bell.
An old lady with a kind face and thick glasses peeks through the narrow gap. "Yes?"
"Hello. I am Reena Chatterjee, Ehraan's colleague. I was passing by, so I thought..."
She unlocks the chain and steps back with a slight limp. I follow her into a dim living room.
"Shoes outside, please." She says with a gentle smile.
"Oh, sorry." I step back out and hobble to remove my sandals. I enter the narrow living room, with walls papered in a pastel-green textured design, cracked and torn at places. There's just a three-seater, a settee, and a small wooden center table. It's quiet enough for me to become conscious of my breath. Where are the paintings?
"Water?" The lady steps closer with a tray and a steel glass.
"Thank you, Auntie."
"Please sit."
I occupy the sofa, and she settles on the makeshift settee.
"Sheila, Ehraan's mother. I just made some tea."
"No, thank you. I have an art gallery and —"
"Ehraan doesn't paint."
"The Widow. He painted that."
"It was nine years ago when his dad died. For me."
"You are the lady in that painting?"
"In parts. Ehraan captured many faces and facets."
"It's beautiful."
"Pain does have an artistic beauty."
"I...didn't mean it that way."
She smiles, "Nor did I."
"Is he...here?"
"Ehraan? It's his house. His and —"
"Nisha's."
I almost choke, but I manage to set the glass aside and rise to greet the man. I half-expected a long-haired, stubbled, serious man — but he looks exactly like he was in the photos; a clean-shaven face with well-combed short hair and gentle, green eyes. He's dressed in a t-shirt and track pants, standing casually barefoot with his hands in his pockets. I clear my throat, "Hello, Ehraan."
"I'll get tea." His mother leaves.
"Please sit." He occupies the settee his mother vacated,
"I'm Reena. I run the gallery, Art House."
"Cubbon Road?"
"Right."
"Nice to meet you, Reena." He glances up and then back at me. "Revati. Wasn't that her gallery?"
"That's right. In fact, I am here at her request."
"We haven't spoken for years. What can I do for you?"
Here we go. No time to waste, anyway. "We're in trouble, Ehraan. About to close down. I need a favour."
"How can I help?"
"I need a painting. From you. It's my last hope."
Suddenly the boyish face is grave, and the crow's feet around his eyes deepen. "Sorry." He rises, skirts around his mother, and disappears inside.
I half stand, ready to leave. This was a bad idea.
"Let's have tea." His mother keeps the tray on the center table and offers me a cup.
"I didn't mean to —"
"It's okay, Reena." She slides my cup closer.
We sip in silence. I keep my eyes lowered, aware that she is looking at me. Artists are driven by emotions. But why did he stop painting? It could help him get over his loss. I break the uncomfortable silence.
"He no longer paints, Auntie?"
"You know about Nisha? About the accident?"
"I read."
"He stopped painting since."
"Now?"
"He works with an ad agency here in Koramangala."
"But his art?"
"I tried. Ehraan thinks it was his fault. Spent the last five years part depressed and part angry. Left painting altogether."
"But he looked..."
"Normal?"
I nod.
"He never liked self-pity. But I know, deep down, he's still hurt."
"I guess it's difficult to get over," I say and finish the tea.
"Through."
"Sorry?"
"One has to get through, and not over, to find peace."
"It's not easy to let go."
"It's not supposed to be. One has to select what memories to live with."
Or with the memories that remain? I place my cup on the table. "I'm sorry to have bothered you." I nod and walk toward the door.
"I heard. Gallery closing down?" she says as I try to put on my sandals.
"Apparently." I force a smile and hobble to clip my sandal.
"You need some help with that?"
I lean against the wall, and finally, my foot slips in. "Got it. Thanks."
"I meant your gallery, Reena."
"It's fine. Thank you."
"Sure?"
"Yes. Why do you ask?"
"Because his best work isn't The Widow."
***
