It was the cold freezing month of January in Delhi, and the night chill was spreading through the handsome apartment that Priyanka lived in, currently enjoying her favorite time of the day – midnight. Priyanka liked sitting near her window at this late hour, with a cup of coffee in one hand and idly looking out the window to watch the clouds roll by. This was a daily practice for Priyanka, before leaving for her late night work at the call center, and she followed it with an almost religious regularity.
Tonight was different though, for the comforting isolation she should have felt was invaded upon by the presence of a man, silently lurking about in the dark shadows of the park downstairs. She looked on at him through her window, her breath fogging the glass, as he brought a huge carton of sorts and put it in front of him. Squinting, Priyanka realized it was a canvas.
Is he mad? Priyanka wondered, keenly watching the man bring out his brushes. He carefully picked one, and began. Priyanka checked the clock – she still had forty minutes before she had to leave for work, so she settled to watch the man paint. She could not quite see the painting in the dark, but that he could stand and hold a brush in this cold was truly admirable. Time went by, as she saw the motion of his hands steadily growing slower, and she wondered whether she should stop him. He was not very warmly clothed, as far as she could make out.
Shoot, Priyanka thought, cursing herself. She had been so mesmerized with the artist outside her apartment that she had forgotten to keep track of time. Had forty minutes flown by so fast? She jumped up, the artist now completely out of her mind, and dressed hurriedly.
Presently she was walking right next to the park, and she could see the man still painting. It was freezing out here his hands were almost unmoving now; he hadn’t even thought of wearing a jacket, as she could see now. Madness, Priyanka thought, as she increased her pace. She heard a soft thump behind her, and she looked back. The man had fallen.
***
“ – yeah, no, I can’t make it today. Am sorry, but something personal came up. Is it fine?”
Priyanka hung up, and she turned to look at the stranger who lay in her couch. She had looked after him the best she can, and he certainly was in no danger of freezing to death anymore, now that she had covered him in layers of blankets. She looked at his unfinished canvas. The different of blue and white and grey played well together, and she thought he must be a professional for that was definitely up to the mark, even incomplete.
The man now opened his eyes softly, before groaning and closing them again. He was murmuring to himself.
“Divya…”
But his eyes were closed. Priyanka wondered who Divya was.
Priyanka was now used to her late night work timings, and as such it was impossible to sleep, even though the clock read close to 2 am. She settled for more coffee, nestling herself in her cushion filled armchair next to her window. She wondered what his story was.
Another hour passed before the man finally woke up. His eyes remained drooped down, his shoulders slack. He seemed not too surprised being woken up in an unknown room, in the presence of an unknown woman. His fingers inched towards the canvas placed on the coffee table; it seemed his eyes registered only that. Priyanka’s eyebrows rose.
He took his half-colored blue-white canvas, and picked up his leather case where he kept his brushes and made towards the door. Priyanka’s eyebrows rose even further, if possible. But Priyanka said nothing and let him leave.
Next night, at around the same time, she saw him again, wrapped in proper clothing this time, painting god only knew what. Without thinking twice Priyanka made towards him and stood to his side, where she was utterly ignored by the artist.
For a long while, she simply stood behind him, watching him fill his canvas with different hues. To the blue he had painted yesterday he now added red, and it seemed poor choice of colors together; yet somehow, he managed to make it look like an aurora-like display. He truly was talented, and more and more Priyanka found her being captivated by him.
The night grew colder, and Priyanka finally decided to open her mouth, and through her shivers, managed to say,
“You can come up.”
But it seemed he had not heard her, and Priyanka gave up, now striding towards her apartment. She was fumbling inside her pockets for the keys, and she dropped them but before she could bend down, a man picked them up and handed them to her rather abruptly. He held the canvas and his brushes in one hand, and just stood, waiting for her to open the door.
Priyanka smiled.
***
Priyanka’s religious discipline of watching the clouds late at night had been broken, and the next few weeks she found herself developing a new practice; she readily gave up her favorite armchair next to the window, which was now replaced by a stand which held the artist’s work upon it. She had two cups of coffee laid out on the table even before he arrived and he would take his cup and start without a word.
Priyanka was not fond of this catatonic phase, wanting to know more about him. But he did not talk much about himself. That was not to say that they did not talk at all – the painter would often mumble about one thing or another, which Priyanka found interesting. Priyanka had never travelled the world, but the young man before her had, and he told her quite a few stories about the streets of London, the rich of Sydney, the addicts of New York, and what not.
Priyanka learned that his name was Roshan and he was born and brought up in Goa. He did not like talking much about Goa though. Priyanka also reserved herself from speaking of the elusive Divya – who was she and what did she mean to him? –for she believed the time was not right.
More and more, Priyanka found herself being drawn in to his mysterious demeanor. He did not talk much, but when he did it was always something more interesting than the last. She found herself wanting to love him, but reprimanded herself for thinking so. She knew absolutely nothing of the man and as such could not love him, for Priyanka was of the opinion that love did not happen involuntarily; love was something that needed consideration and planning before falling into it heedlessly. Yet she found herself doing just that, often fantasizing watching him paint whilst still at work.
At the end of the third week, Roshan finally finished his painting. Top right corner of the painting depicted a glossy starry night sky, cold and scary, the black of which faded into a blue which somehow transitioned into a soft glow of yellow grimness as it went further towards the bottom left. A female hand was depicted there, outstretched towards the moon, covered in bridal mahendi. He titled it ‘The Runaway Bride’, and Priyanka had never seen anything more beautiful. Roshan casually pressed his painting to her.
“For you”, was all he said.
Priyanka forgot all her meticulously formulated ideals about love, now kissing him full on the lips. The sensual tension that had developed had finally broken, like air breaks to let lightning pass, and their arms intertwined in animalistic ways; Roshan spent that night making art of a different nature, lost in the perfect brushstrokes that had created Priyanka’s body.
Next morning, when Priyanka woke up, Roshan wasn’t there. She was not overly displeased, if worried a bit, and when she looked at her bedside table, she smiled, for the painting he had made for her lay there. She picked it up and found it a better place to hang. She was just admiring the painting, now placed regally upon the wall with that window, when her doorbell rang.
A strange man in an expensive looking suit entered the room, his beard trimmed at peculiar angles and his hair slicked back. Before Priyanka could utter a word, he spoke,
“Sorry to trouble you, miss. Do you know Roshan? Skinny, tall, dark – “, but then he saw the painting hanging from the wall and exclaimed, half in delight and half in horror. He sprinted towards the painting, stepping onto her armchair to remove it from its peg.
“Stop. Who are you? And stop handling my painting – I will call the cops!”
The sharply dressed man stopped and looked back quizzically. He stepped down.
“I’m sorry. Let me introduce myself. My name is Aryaan Malik, and I’m an art enthusiast and Roshan’s agent and friend. And this painting is painted by Roshan and is not yours. I am prepared to sue you if you say otherwise.”
Kiara stopped. She did not quite know how to respond to that. After thinking a while, she replied,
“It was given to me by Roshan…”
“It is not Roshan’s to give away either. He signed a contract. It belongs to my firm and this painting should be valued accordingly. Do you realize this painting can cost potentially crores? There is an auction at Goa next week and I need Roshan, so do you know where he is?”
Priyanka did not know what to say. So she decided to tell him everything, excluding last night.
Aryaan sat down and looked at her gravely.
“Ever since Divya, the man has become insane – “
“Divya?”, Priyanka wondered.
“His fiancé. Or rather his ex fiancé.”
Priyanka stayed mum, so Aryaan proceeded to tell him what he knew.
Roshan had been born in Goa, but he had never been happy there. At a young age of thirteen, he had run away from his home. He had saved money and went to Ahmadabad, where his life took a dramatic turn. He had been trying to sleep in the streets, outside an art exhibition, and drawn in by the music and the lights, he peeked inside. He became captivated by the different paintings that adorned the walls and soon decided to paint, stealing the necessary brushes and paints to do so. Soon he got the money to buy canvases of his own, donated by different charities and if his painting was spectacular on walls, it was divine on canvas.
Soon Aryaan found him and pitched his plan to make him a world class artist. They made money and fame and Roshan’s repertoire reached international waters. Through it all though, Aryaan noticed that his comrade never smiled, never did seem happy. Perhaps he had suffered too much in his youth, and Aryaan took pity. He felt that Roshan required some lady love, and he took it upon himself to call a hooker.
Roshan did not know that Divya was a prostitute, and as he slowly fell in love with her, Aryaan increasingly felt discomfort around his neck. He knew the inevitable would happen soon, and it did. Roshan told Aryaan about his plans to marry Divya, told him about his big engagement in Australia, and Aryaan could not lie anymore. He told him the truth.
Well, after that, it was bound to expect Roshan to be upset. What Aryaan had not expected was his complete breakdown. He could not take the pain, and tried to kill himself. Aryaan, horrified at the thought of losing his client, suggested therapy, but Roshan would not go. Aryaan tried finding Divya, but who could tell where a whore would spend her night in? As such, he was unable to find her, and Roshan had disappeared too, off to god knows where.
Yesterday, Roshan had called Aryaan, blabbering about his work being complete, definitely high on what drugs he knew not. But Aryaan had come to the address he had given, only to find him not there.
Priyanka heard all this patiently. She now understood the pain Roshan was in. Aryaan continued,
“There is a private plane my firm owns. Can you please convince him to come to Goa, tonight, if possible?”
Priyanka nodded, and closed the door behind Aryaan. She hated giving ‘The runaway bride’ to Aryaan, but she said nothing. She looked at the empty space in her wall for a long time.
***
Roshan could hardly walk straight. Everything he saw through his high eyes seemingly pulsated and breathed, the ground itself shaking as he walked. Today he felt like he had overdosed, and at every step he could almost make her out, in the corner of his eyes, but never quite distinguishable. Was Divya playing hide and seek? It was not a fun game, Roshan thought, and so he let her be in the corner, beckoning him.
It was almost 12 am, and there was somewhere he had to be – or did he? He did not know, his eyes rolling upwards before focusing in front again. Where had Divya gone? She had been right there, had she not?
When he arrived to Priyanka’s place, Priyanka was waiting for him downstairs. He squinted at her, the night colors swirling around him, taking on sinister but comforting kaleidoscopic shapes.
Priyanka looked at him with hurt in her eyes. She told him something about going in a plane. An adventure? He was up for it, but what about the empty canvas in his hands? He had to fill it. And had she said Goa? He did not want to go there, but Priyanka insisted on it, taking his arm and directing him towards the cab she had called.
Soon they reached the airport. The private plane was lined on the runway, waiting for them. Roshan recovered some of his senses and halted.
“Where is the painting I gave you?”
Priyanka was surprised by the question; it almost seemed that he cared for her. But then she knew that could not be true. He loved Divya alone, even she could see that. As for Roshan, he patiently waited for her reply.
“I do not have it. Let’s go, Roshan.”
“Where – “, but his voice fell short and his vision became white; he was blinded for a second, perhaps owing to the lights in the airport.
“It’s with Aryaan. Let’s go!” Priyanka shouted over the ruckus, agitated by Roshan’s condition.
Aryaan, she said. He hadn’t heard his name in months. Suddenly everything was coming back to Roshan. Divya was somewhere here, she had to be. Where? What had happened to Divya? He remembered a hotel room in Australia, where he was spending the night with her. He remembered confronting her. Aryaan had told him everything. He blinked.
This was an airport, not a hotel room. Why had he thought it was a hotel? But Priyanka dragged him by his hand, and he could hear her sob.
They seated themselves in the plane. Priyanka took his empty canvas and put it on the seat next to the window, while she took the middle seat. Roshan sat down slowly next to the aisle. The plane took off.
As the plane shook and rolled, Roshan’s intoxication produced even more intricate hallucinations. An empty canvas is the embodiment of pure art for an artist, for from it he can create whatever came to his mind. Roshan’s strained mind produced what he wanted to see the most, and as such, he saw Divya now smiling at him from the far seat. He did not say a word, and avoided looking at her, for Priyanka was seated in between. But he found himself increasingly wanting to talk with Divya.
In the middle of the flight, Priyanka woke up to go to the washroom. When she returned, she was too lazy to push her way into the middle seat. And with Roshan readily offering to shift seats, the seating arrangement changed. With 20 minutes still remaining for the flight to land, a sleep starved Priyanka took a power nap, this time holding Roshan’s right hand more firmly. Roshan’s other hand, though, nervously moved to touch Divya’s. Her heart skipped a beat. Divya pulled her hand away. But a defiant Roshan held her wrist again, this time firmly and more reassuringly. The changing behavioral dynamics between the three perhaps gave out a foreboding of what was to come in Goa.
When the flight landed at the Dabolim Airport, Roshan felt uncanny…his excitement seemed replaced by an unknown fear that he found difficult to decipher.
He knew that as soon as he got down the plane, he would not be able to talk with Divya anymore, and he had to speak to her.
“Divya – “
“Why did you kill me, Roshan?” Divya whispered.
And with that one sentence, he remembered everything from that hotel room where he confronted her. She claimed to love him, but what did a love of a whore mean? He was infuriated, jealous of all the men who had had her, and he lunged to her throat, strangling her, as she screamed. Divya was screaming.
No. Priyanka was screaming. This was the plane, not the hotel room. But Rishaan held his wrists firmly around her throat as he screamed,
“YOU ARE A WHORE!”
“Please, Roshan – “ her voice was fading away.
“YOU ARE A WHORE!”
“Roshan, I love yo – “, but Priyanka’s voice faltered and there was a small snap as her neck broke, and Roshan fell on her exhausted.
***