Unanswered..

Seeking pleasure he stroked, not knowing why it pleasures him every time. But he kept moving, up and down, a rhythm flowed from his mind to his hands were solely indescribable. Beethoven kept playing in the background, while he swayed with the music, taking in all the pain that was left in his heart. He became anxious as he thrusts the brush back to the palette. Then he stared. A stare which took some infinite moments to seep in his work. He wasn't sure, 'he never is sure' chiding oneself. He bent to look at his muse. He was sure she would be fast asleep but she was lying just as patient she looked before, not a crease on her face. But a smile which made home in his heart.

He warned, "My work takes time." While she was enthusiast, "I have all the time in the world." And her trademark flashed - her smile. The artist jumped in him to paint that smile. 'Who won't want to beat Monalisa' he thought. They fixed a day and met in his gallery-cum-room, she never remarked once of the mess around. Except for the bed, the whole place had creativity of it's own, newspapers, magazines stacked in a pile, paint in the other, few broken plates which he excused of his excessive drinking at times. Things were melange yet art for him. Once in a month he cleans and then starts his euphoria of work - messing. A tiny space occupied his profession - his paintings. Carefully arranged and clean from the rest of the room.

And a gramophone rested at a corner beside a shelf full of records. He chose Beethoven's Moonlight Sonata for the tranquil air but with permission from the lady. He was glad for the freedom because not all 'subjects' like the way he works many have declined but she was insistent to be painted. It was her who approached, in a very unique fashion - by mail. He ignored and then some fifty of them landed on his mail box in a month until one day he opened and read -

I have heard of you. You're not an established one but I choose you and express my humble desire to be painted. I would be glad if we meet sometime and make this happen.

Typed in braille.

He couldn't turn it down, not out of mercy but curiosity. They met in a week and he learnt of her blindness. He asked she could have made someone write the letter but she replied, "Then you wouldn't have known of my desires. When you have a desire, then you flow with it and that's what reached you." She was right. She was mysterious. When he questioned her nationality, she said,"I come from deserts, my family migrated when I was very young. After my dad died, my mom did odd jobs to feed us. Then she was placed in a school as an assistant teacher and we never looked back. She educated me, and taught me to be independent."

She was a Sufi singer of good fame and following, he learnt. He discovered Sufi was an art just like his. And her desires did reach him, he was painting her now.

She was elegantly pretty. She wore a long jacket as it was cold outside. And as he arranged his stuffs, she uncovered too. First, her jacket, then the sequin top, the long skirt below, and then the rest. While he couldn't stop admiring her courage. Why. He paints only nudes which she agreed for, "My nation would hang me for this" she confessed, "But what's art if not challenged." Defying all his thoughts, he made her comfortable and laid her on the neat bed.

And like some painting she did look. While he stared at her for not knowing how long and stood from his stool holding the brush, his arm to get started. The entire night he was focused with the same record repeating at the backdrop. The sunlight greeted his room while she hushed a 'good-morning' perfect on timing, startling the artist.

He turned to see her as the lights radiating from her almost blinded him. He generally keeps the curtain down of the french window but amusingly he was so engrossed that he forgot. Neglecting the light, he seeped in her beauty. Her chest, hips perfectly proportionate like some Renaissance paintings. He just couldn't stop admiring, then, something sparked. "The face", he jumped. And again got engaged with his love.

She never frowned for the silence between them. Her mom loved Beethoven which played in her mind the whole time. Nor was she flushed lying like a mermaid. She simply smiled, wishing to see herself - impossibility.

After an hour or so, he looked at her only to find the same her. But he was not done, the painting missed lights, the aurora which illuminated the goddess in her that morn.

He ordered a large breakfast, she talked some more. He inquired, "What brings you here?" She replied, "My mom, I have always been complimented for my beauty. They say I resemble her. The last image I ever saw was her when I was few months old and then I lost my sight. My dad wanted us secure so we migrated. And today my mom's gone, I don't want people to see me when you paint but my mom whom you paint."

He agreed, "You resemble of ancient goddesses; your locks, the way they layer around your chest, and the way your hip sits are admirable. Don't be offended, but I feel beauty must be celebrated. And your face, I have nothing to compare to, those eyes are liars." She was puzzled. "Liars because they don't show to be blind, mild hazel eyes, deeper than the ocean, I must say." Then he fell quiet, drinking from the bottle of wine.

He announced,"It will be afternoon by the time I finish. Do you want to leave for today and come some other day?" She provoked, "Will you capture the same me tomorrow?" and fell into laughter. Sweet laughs that hit the plain walls were glimmered by the sweetness of it. He smirked too. "Okay, will finish today but I don't want you to end." He spoke his heart. "Neither do I." she hushed.

He went back to his love-making, and never once raised his head. This time he played a classic which changed the mood, lightening the entire room.

By 14:00 hours he raised from his work, she was waiting patiently like a mother awaiting her new born. He desperately ran to her not believing his own creation and for the first time kissed a lady in years after losing his wife. She didn't flinch a bit but kissed in return. Shouting, "I knew you would do it!" Amazed at her reaction he queried, "How come?"

She smiled back, her trademark, "Some questions are better left unanswered..." And there were some more passionate kisses, he wrapped her wanting her like never before.

They didn't make love that day.

Or any other day.

Ever since she was young, she acquired brain tumor which took her sight.

That evening she died of stroke in his arms.

Now, she remains in his painting.

And her laughter playfully echoes in the gallery-cum-room of the re-known painter.

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