The Ancient Portrait

 It was one of those days again. Sitting before the computer, overwhelmed by the desire to write something, but lacking ideas. None came to mind. What was the point of writing without having an idea in your head? But I must have sat on my chair for endless hours, looking at a blank screen, and doing practically nothing but just stare at it, hoping a miracle would grace me and sow an idea into my head. But, such things do not happen that often. At least not with me. I have always found myself at the centre of unfortunate incidents that never seem to go away. I was always, if one were to put it, at the very centre of a tempestuous tornado. I would perhaps be giving a fair deal to the weather forecasters with my frequent appearances. Now, that sounds like a good idea.

 

I do not recall dozing off on the chair, but I certainly do recall waking up to a loud and absolutely annoying ringtone of mine. It was Nisha, my co-worker. She had called up to make sure I did not sit on our evening plan. It was apparently a small party we were supposed to go to. Well, let me be honest here. It was a party to which she was planning on going, not me. I detest parties. I never quite understood the concept behind standing amidst a crowd of strangers, some of whom look as if they are not even sure why they are there in the first place. But Nisha, she was different and her disposition and mine were polar opposites. She was one of those people who always had their hands raised for any social event. The idea of missing out on parties gave her the heebie-jeebies. She was a social butterfly. But, I do not grouse about it. We are all made of different elements, and while she was made of sparkling wine, I, on the other hand, was made of plain water. Yet, we each have our own gravity we take pride in. 

 

"Yes, I will be there," I told her over the phone. I was not absolutely sure about it, if I were to be honest. I was looking for an excuse. Anything that sounded more genuine than the political speech I had listened to a while ago. But, I could not come up with any, not at that moment, at the very least. "I guess I have to go to the party after all," I thought.

 

So, I was finally at the party. My eyes were looking for familiar faces amongst a crowd of what looked like over fifty. It was a house-warming party that one of our colleagues threw. He had recently bought this house which was located on the outskirts of town. It was a beautiful house, one must admit. It was a 3-bedroom apartment with two spacious verandahs and a living hall where we were all presently gathered—some chatting, while others, such as I, were looking for known faces to talk to. And then, Nisha appeared from one of the corners. It was a sigh of relief. She was wearing a yellow gown with embroidered sleeves. For someone who always wore nothing but plain t-shirts and jeans to work, this was a sight to behold. She looked regal, like an epitome of flowing elegance walking amongst a crowd of wine glasses and artificial smiles.

 

“Hey! You're finally here. What took you so long?” she inquired. Now, I did not see it fit to tell her that I was not even remotely willing to come. “Well, I was trying out my dresses, something that would fit the occasion. Pardon me,” I said, trying to put up a charade all the while. Sometimes, I think people can lie through their teeth so easily that it becomes difficult to differentiate between the actual truth and the lie. Such a travesty I had to throw around! I do not blame myself entirely for that. People lie. They lie all the time, and they lie to save their backs. They lie to protect themselves from any unpleasant situation that could follow, which, again, is something that they are naturally able to see. I could see it.

 

“Damn, girl! You look gorgeous in this blue velvet dress. You're forgiven. Anyway, come, I will introduce you to this amazing person I just met. He is totally adorable and high-maintenance. But, no air, whatsoever! You will like him,” she said matter-of-factly. How she could guarantee that I wondered. For a wallflower such as me, breaking the ice is like scaling Mount Everest. To initiate a conversation that would elicit warmth and cordiality is something my personality failed to be blessed with when I was born. Besides, what I learned from experience is that one must not be too pally with anyone, because friendships come with a package of expectations by default, and if those are not met, one is liable to get hurt. I have had some terrible experiences in the past, but that is a story for another time. Presently, I was getting mentally prepared to meet this so-called adorable and high-maintenance person that Nisha was speaking so highly of. I was also prepared to get tongue-tied because that is my wont.

 

An excited and over-enthusiastic Nisha took me by the hand and we were finally standing beside this 6 ft 1-inch tall man who was wearing a green striped shirt and grey trousers. I could not help but notice his strong and muscular build with broad shoulders and thick back-brushed hair. His shirt sleeves were folded up to his elbows, and his eyes, black as a pit, looked at us, in amazement and anticipation. “Samar, meet my lovely and talented friend Jahnvi. Jahnvi, meet this handsome hunk Samar.” Her manner of introduction was riddled with her sheer cunning. I knew how her mind worked. If it were up to her, she would have found a career in match-making instead of journalism. But she did not regret her actions, ever.

 

He went ahead and shook hands with me like any well-mannered person would. “Nice to meet you, Samar. Nisha said you were an entrepreneur and recently moved to India. It must be a wonderful feeling to come back to your homeland,” I managed to say, surprising myself. “Yes, I moved in here last week. I had no plans of coming back but I wanted to establish my business here. How about you? You must have a very hectic work schedule. I heard people in Journalism rarely get time to breathe,” he added, almost sounding like a smart alec. I did not know what to say to that. He was partly right. Journalists need to work round the clock, and often, chase the clock whenever need be. But having worked in the media for three years now, every fibre of my being got accustomed to the tight schedule. So, all the initial complaints about tiredness, mental drainage and physical exhaustion have flatlined. “It does get tiring sometimes, especially, when one has a big event to cover,” I replied after a slight pause. I believe he saw right through my uneasiness at continuing a conversation, because the next thing he said confirmed it. “I'm starving. Let's have dinner.” That was very smart of him.

Now, amidst all of that, Nisha seemed unhappy with me. The match-maker in her was disappointed at the fact that I had not shown any romantic interest in the high-maintenance guy. She thought we two would have made a cute couple. Samar was a nice man. He certainly exuded charm and had an attractive personality, but I was not ready to be in a relationship. I had other things to focus on. Like writing a mammoth essay for the much reputed literary magazine, The Quill. The deadline for submission was near and my mind was as arid as the Sahara desert. It was infertile. It lacked ideas. Imagination.

 

In the days to come, things were soon going to turn interesting much to my oblivion. Over the next few days, Samar and I met over coffee. We had not planned it. It simply was an organic consequence of our conversations that kept us wanting to see each other. We became good friends. His interests and mine were not completely out of sync, and slowly, my uneasiness and discomfort around him faded. Our communication slowly, but gradually became more frequent. From movies to books to music, to politics and philosophy, we talked about almost everything under the sun. What I learned from our conversations was that he had a penchant for buying famous and, at times, not-so-famous paintings. He loved paintings of all kinds. “I love Renaissance paintings the most. They are more realistic and vivid in expressions than those of the Middle Ages. Sandro Botticelli, Leonardo da Vinci, Raphael and Andrea del Castagno are some of my favourite painters from that period,” he once told me as we were sipping on Cappuccino at La Bourde bistro. I, personally, never really took a fancy to paintings even though I did steal a glance or two if I ever came across an attractive one. “What do you like about paintings in general so much?” I expressed my interest. Not that I was genuinely interested in paintings, but I wanted to know what appealed to him about them the most. “Paintings are a different form of art. Now, you, for example, write poetry. You express your emotions, your feelings in lyrical words that give a profound meaning to your thoughts and emotions. Painting is a form of poetry, too. It expresses the mind of an artist and often portrays his or her deepest desire and emotion out on a blank canvas. Paintings tell a story.” I kept listening to him intently. He went on. “It gives me an inexplicable joy to try and read the minds of the painters, and see things, if possible, from their point of view. Now that does not always work the same, because one can only interpret a painting in his own way. And that is the beauty of art. It is all about interpretation. The paintings, too, are open to interpretation.” He paused for a second to take a sip of his cappuccino which, I assumed, had turned fairly cold by then. “Now, what is interesting about painters is their way of perceiving things and beauty in their own ways. Take the famous painting ‘The Birth of Venus' for example. The image of Venus here portrayed by Botticelli as the idealization of beauty in Renaissance Florence is significantly different from what his German counterpart Lucas Cranach had portrayed in his painting. Again, the Venus portrayed in northern Europe is not as voluptuous as her Italian counterpart. That’s what makes paintings and painters interesting. It is the same object viewed under different lenses of the prism. It is like a beautiful rainbow spectrum,” he smiled while taking another sip from his cup.

 

He indeed threw some interesting facts and factoids on paintings. He exuded extreme passion while he talked about it. I understood where it came from. I could relate to it. It was with a similar passion and excitement that I used to talk about poetry and books. It is something that is born out of a deep-seated love for the things one is interested in. The old-school lovers, the classical romantics would surely assent to it.

 

 

“So, how did the date go?” Nisha asked one day while we were at work. She had the proclivity to come up with some absolutely ridiculous ideas in her head. “It wasn't a date, silly. I mean, it was a date but it wasn't the kind of date you have in mind. Besides, it went just fine.” She looked at me, cocking an eyebrow. I knew she wanted more and was not satisfied with that. “We talked about art and philosophy, if that's what you want to know. And by the way, stop giving me that you-are-useless look,” I said firmly. It was evident from her facial expressions that she was highly disappointed and was probably waiting for me to feed her some juicy tales. “How utterly boring! Two enterprising and young individuals meeting over coffee and talking about art and philosophy? I'm sorry, Jahnvi, but that was not expected at all. I had set you two up for what? To discuss what Van Gogh ate for dinner and what Leonardo da Vinci had for lunch? Come on! You both can do better,” she scoffed. It was as if her reputation as a match-maker was at stake, and ours was going to set the benchmark. I cocked her a snook and resumed working.

It was noon. The peak hour for a newsroom. I must tell you that the newsroom is not a very pleasant environment to work in. One is always chasing the clock and each news bulletin has to be fresh with every news item updated. And if there is breaking news coming in, you have to work at breakneck speed to run it on air before any of the rival news channels break it before us. It is always a competition. I had a news item to write. Apparently, a member of the state legislative assembly was met with an accident. It was allegedly a hit-and-run case, and the perpetrator was absconding. Such news reports were so common that as a chief editor, it barely took a couple of minutes to frame it and run it on air.

 

But such was not the case with creative writing. Not for me. I was suffering from Writer's block and I did not know what to put on paper. It took me over five days to be able to type out a single sentence, however lame it was. But I did not give up. I recall making an extra effort one evening and forcing myself to write something. ‘Lucy was walking down the beach on a beautiful summer evening. Her hair gently caressing her cheeks as the orange sunset kissed her face. With eyes closed, she opened her arms as if to embrace the bewitching summer breeze. She was…’ and that was it. That was all I could get out of forcing myself to write. I sighed and went to retire to bed. It was 10 PM, but I needed to sleep early because I had an early morning shift the next day. I received a text from Samar the next day, asking if I wanted to see him in the evening. I had no reason to say no. I replied ‘OK’.

 

 

I found myself enjoying in his company. He was not only a delightful man, but was equally erudite. He knew about a lot of things, apart from, of course, paintings. We met again at La Bourde. It became our favourite spot for hanging out. The ambiance was perfect, and most importantly, it was less crowded unlike other places in the city. “I observed you always order cappuccino. It must be your favourite beverage,” he commented. His eyes fixated on me. “I have fixed likes and dislikes. My preferences are usually immutable. Is that bad?” I did not know why I needed to seek validation from him. I was not a coffee person per se, but other than tea, it was cappuccino in my list. “Of course! It's good to have fixed preferences. It tells a lot about a person.” I shared a similar sentiment. Samar went on. “A person's mannerisms, his choice of food habits, clothing and everything trivial actually describe him in a way words can't.” I took that as an opportunity to ask what he thought about me. Not that I particularly cared, but it is good to know what the other person thinks of you. Sometimes, we need others to act as our mirrors. It is not as much about being liked by the other person as much as it is about knowing yourself through their eyes. “So, what does it say about me? My love for cappuccino, I mean,” I finally asked. He looked at me, his eyes piercing mine in a way I could not explain. It was as if he held my gaze with his deep, black eyes; his gaze probing deep into mine. Observing. Reading. A weird sense of disquietude slowly crept up my body. It seemed like an eternity before he spoke. “You prioritize loyalty and fidelity over other things. Trustworthiness plays a fairly significant role in your life. You are headstrong. Determined, and stubborn. Laser focused on what you want to achieve.” He stopped, looking at me. I was stunned. Partly impressed that he was dead correct. But partly scared because he seemed to have read right through me, and I was afraid he was going to read my mind. “Bravo! You were so effortless at it just as you read through your favourite paintings.” Paintings! Of course! He sure was a naturally gifted observer. He smiled at me, reading my uneasiness again. Damn! His eyes must have inbuilt scanners, I thought. “Don't worry. I'm good at reading paintings. Bad at reading people. You see, people are a complex set of beings that change like the seasons. They can sometimes be impenetrable. Paintings, on the other hand, are not as difficult as one thinks.”

A sigh of relief must have washed over me. “I would love to see your collection of paintings some day,” I said nonchalantly. Little did I know that this nonchalance was going to change my life. “What are you doing next Sunday?” he asked, startling me. “I don't have any plans as yet,” I shot him a quizzical look. “Perfect! I have an estate on the outskirts of town. I have inherited it from my Grandfather. There is a manor house where he now lives. It is bedecked with a huge collection of classical paintings there. Ancient classical, Medieval, Renaissance, Contemporary, you name it. My love for paintings has definitely stemmed from the old man” he said, laughing at the memory. “Why don't you come with me next week? I can show you all the collections.” He seemed thrilled at the idea. I was not sure, however. I had nothing better to do next Sunday, and my Writer’s block had the upper hand, surely. But I wanted to have a look at his collection and also visit his grandfather. Maybe a change of place and air would also help unblock the Writer's block. I had no option but to agree to go with him.

 

 

It was a two-hour long drive to his estate. The estate, as I learned later, belonged to his great grandfather, who then passed it on to his grandfather and who finally passed it on to him undivided. He was the sole heir. ‘He is stinking rich’, I thought. The two-hour long journey seemed like forever. As we drove further away from the city, human settlement became less frequent with more open fields and trees lining up the roadside. We finally reached his estate. It was beautiful. It was vast. It had two manor houses, three huge ponds, two orchards, and few guest houses for people who wished to live and spend some time away from a noisy citylife. That included his friends and their family members. We entered the iron gates of his manor house that towered before us. The gates swelled in pride for standing tall and protecting the house for many years. And there it was! The house of dreams. The great stately manor. Regal. Victorian. If the manor had not been there, my artistic mind would have conjured it for my dreamscape imagination. It stood apart with its many eyes so wide. It was as if it had a way of belonging to the earth. Its grey and brown stone walls reflected sunlight into the ambient soul.

We went inside. It was another treat. The interiors were designed in a Victorian style. Dark maroon and forest green enriched the walls; carpeted and parquet floor made of natural wood; arched doorways and windows with decorative ironwork; massive mahogany furniture with carved motifs on them; a wooden fireplace by the living hall, and a heavy library furnishing the walls on the opposite of it. As we walked inside, the long corridor leading to a stairway was adorned with spectacular paintings. Many different paintings. He was right. All the paintings, portraits and frescoes were hung on special rails. It was like walking through a time capsule—each painting belonging to a different era, a different time, condensed into one. He led me into one of the rooms to introduce me to his old man.

 

“Good Noon, Grandpops! I have someone you should meet”. I saw a man, perhaps in his early 80s, with silver hair and glasses, resting casually on a button-back armchair. I went ahead and introduced myself to him. His grandfather was a kind man. His wrinkles carried the memory of his experience, and his fine grey hair emanated wisdom. He was as charming as his grandson. He spoke with a quiver in his voice, and yet, his voice had unfathomable depth and gravity. I always loved spending time with the elderly. Their percipience laced with grace shows in their deep thoughtful eyes that have seen and experienced a multitude of beauty and horrors of life. Samar apprised him of why I was there. It elicited a sparkle in the old man's eyes. “Surely, young lady! It is a rarity to find people of this new generation express their interest in ancient treasures and collectibles. Samar got it from me.” His genuine thrill in the fact that a person of today's generation showed any interest in his age-old collection of paintings sparked a sense of pride in me. And I did not know why. “Show her around, my man. Show her what valuables I possess that have remained with me till today,” his grandfather said with utmost pride in his eyes.

 

The pastel walls adorned with great classical paintings and portraits were something I had never seen before. Each painting was framed in wooden frames laced with ornaments. They were beautiful, each one of them. There were possibly over a hundred of them in a single aisle. Samar informed me that that was not all. He took me upstairs and showed me into a room that possessed over a hundred more. An overwhelming sense of artistic inspiration flowed through my veins. Each portrait, each painting was realistic; they were stories that lived on to tell for centuries. “They are so awe-inspiring. I'm amazed,” I muttered, while still looking at all of them in a daze. “Indeed. They have been preserved and taken care of by my Grandfather. As they say, art is that life-saving boat

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onto which we climb to maintain our sanity.” There was one particular portrait that caught my attention. It was hung beside ‘The Triumph of Death’ by Pieter Brugel. Something about that portrait was intriguing. Samar saw me looking at it intently. “My old man had bought it from a stranger who was selling it outside a bookstore. It is not known who the painter is, but one must confess to the brilliance of this portrait,” he remarked. Indeed. There was an inexplicable charm about this particular painting. It was ancient. It was sublime. It was evocative. It was a lady in her prime, standing among primrose tufts and roses, her auburn hair shielding half her face as if to protect her innocence from the evils of the world. Her gaze slightly lowered, like a shy deer in a bewitching forest of allure and charm; and her cheeks were a coquettish crimson. She was wearing a long blue polonaise gown and holding a mirror in hand. It was, otherwise, an ordinary portrait of a possibly Polish woman in her mid-20s standing in a garden. But the portrait, to me, appeared alive. It was trying to speak to me. It was trying to tell me things I did not know about. “I think you like this painting,” Samar broke the trance I was in. For how long I stared at that painting, I had not any clue. I, however, knew that this painting was no ordinary painting. I wanted to know more about it. “I'm not sure about it,” I said, “but I know for a fact that I can't keep my eyes off of it.”

 

It was time for me to leave his estate. Frankly, I did not want to. Not because it was a spectacular place, which undoubtedly it was, but because the vision of that anonymous portrait was haunting my vision. I could not, for the love of Pete, keep it out of my head. It was something I had never experienced before until then. I had come across various wonderful paintings in my life earlier but none of them pierced my head like the one at the manor. What was it about that portrait? It was just another compendium of colours thrown on a blank canvas, just like any other painting. Samar did not fail to utilize his gift of reading minds, and knew something was bothering me. “What is it?” he enquired, almost concerned, as we were walking down the stairway. I did not know how to explain it to him. I was afraid he was going to think I was mad. I told him nothing. We went to meet his grandfather before leaving.

“You have such a lovely and splendid collection of paintings. I had no idea you were so passionate about them,” I said. The old man turned his chair to look at me. “I'm glad you liked them. Paintings have a life of their own. You will realise it later.” His ambiguous response triggered my curiosity. “What do you mean by ‘you will realise it later’?” I asked. He rubbed his temple and said nothing. Samar tried to interject. “Grandpops, Jahnvi was observantly looking at that painting you had bought from a random guy on the street. I think she is slowly starting to absorb your passion as well,” he said, half-jokingly. It was a moment opportune for me to ask him about the painting. “I found it stellar and....different. Samar says no one knows who painted it. Is that true? Why did you buy it?” I asked in a single breath. He took a deep breath, took out his glasses, cleaned them with a piece of cloth, and put them back on before saying in a low, hushed voice as if he was tired of repeating the story ‘n’ number of times to ‘n’ number of people. “It's true. The painter is apparently some unknown guy who had probably painted it and forgot to mention his name on it. Either that or someone else might have stolen it from the original painter and removed the signature. Either way, I loved it when I first saw it. It was, what you young folks say, love at first sight. I saw it, I fell in love with it, and I bought it. It was for a piddly sum of money, but the man selling it outside a bookstore didn't know any better. Poor chap,” he said, shaking his head from side to side. One thing was clear to me. This painting was indeed different. It was unique in its own mysterious way. And I wanted it.

 

I remained disturbed for the next few days. Disturbed, I say, because those few days were spent thinking, and obsessing over that portrait. The feeling of obsession—yes, obsession—the feeling of obsession was intense. My work was starting to get affected. “You seem lost and absentminded these days. Where is your focus?” my news editor was once found admonishing me after seeing my poor performance. It was true. I was lost. I had stopped being myself for quite some time. It was the lady in the portrait that haunted me day in and day out. It was her that I dreamt of when I was awake. It was her that I dreamt of when I was asleep. Her auburn hair, her blue dress, her visage...it was like a spectral image floating right in front of my eyes, yet so far away from me that I could not grasp at it.

 

I was sitting at the office canteen during lunch one day while trying hard not to think about it. Canteens are one of the best ways to effect distraction if one were to look at it. The food, the chaos, the noise, the jibber-jabber of people—everything serves as clean bait to divert your attention from the clouds of trouble and anxiety. I was not sure if it really worked for me. I did end up thinking about the painting. I was going mad.

 

“If you really loved it, why don't you tell Samar to get it for you?” Nisha asked, joining me minutes later in the canteen. The idea did occur to me several times. There were moments when I almost dialled his number to tell him about the painting and ask if I could buy it. I knew it was a valuable treasure for him and his family. It was his grandfather’s, after all. I could have told him about it, but the untold apprehension about having what was a family relic seemed a little inexpedient. “Buy? Come on! I'm sure he would be willing to present it to you as a gift,” she said, almost reading my mind. I was getting tired of mind readers. But I did not want to have it as a gift. I wanted to buy it. Own it. Possess it. I went back home that day after work and pressed Samar’s number. “Can we meet tomorrow?”.

 

It was drizzling outside when we met at La Bourde again. The lights were dimly lit, and soft jazz music was playing in the background. The whole environment radiated a warmth that penetrated deep into my soul and lit up the dying ember within. Samar was saying something about his recent trip to a hill station. I was half listening to him. I read his lips, mouthing and forming words that were deaf to my ears. Where was I? I was not there. What was wrong with me? The lady, I thought. “You aren't being yourself. Is everything all right?”. No. Nothing was all right anymore. “I needed to ask you something,” I paused, gauging his reaction. My nervous system kicked in with an accelerated pulse rate and increased respiration. The initial apprehension and disquiet are supposed to be common in moments like this. I was, after all, going to be asking for something that had been a part of their life for years. Nobody in their sane minds would be willing to give away something that belonged in their possession for decades. It was like asking for a part of their soul, except in this case, it was asking for the whole caboodle...both the body and the soul. He sat upright and leaned a little towards me. “Yes? Tell me.” “Remember the painting I saw at your estate? The one without the painter's name?”. He nodded. “Well, I was thinking that maybe….”. “You want it,” he said, cutting me off mid-sentence, and totally catching me on the hop. He did it again. He read right through me. My doubts about his X-ray vision were cemented with absolute surety. “Well, yes, I loved that painting, but only if your grandfather doesn’t mind,” I said. “Don't be silly. I knew you liked that painting. You were barely able to keep your eyes off of it. If you want, I can have it sent to you by tomorrow.” My eyes widened and shone brightly at the excitement of it. “Right. But, I would much rather prefer buying it from you. Any amount.” And that was it. I was going to have the painting to myself. I was going to own it. I was breathing in a different joy I could not explain.

 

The whole evening was spent in unabated excitement, restlessness, and getting bathed in a sense of euphoria. It was mad. I was mad. This did not seem normal. It was not normal. Nothing was going to be normal again.

 

It was Friday. It was the day I was waiting for for the last couple of weeks. I had an early morning shift that day at work, so I was home by 3 PM. I waited for Samar to call me. And he did. After an hour. That long agonizing and painful hour of wait and impatience was too much to bear. And for what, I wondered. Just a painting? Indeed, it was madness and insanity that were slowly consuming me, taking me into the depths of the unknown. He had called in to inform me that he sent a man with the portrait who would be reaching in another 30 minutes. Oh, dear Lord! Another harrowing 30 minutes of absolute edginess and nervous fretting. Waiting is a painful experience, especially, when you are waiting for something good, something that you have always wanted to have. And all the good makes you wait endlessly. But some things are truly worth the wait. It is a way of making one realise the value of things, and I understood its value perfectly.

 

It was wrapped in a patterned gift wrapper. I watched it from a distance, admiring the mystery that was to unravel in the next few seconds. The wait was finally over. It was with little difficulty that I managed to find a nail and a mallet to hang it in my room. The decision concerning the propitious place to hang it on was a no-brainer. I knew where exactly to hang it. The wall on opposite of my bed. It was an angle so apt that my eyes could capture the beauty of it directly, in a straight line, from the feathery comforts of my bed. That was it. I no longer had to twitch in my sleep with the memory of it. I had it in my possession. The Portrait.

 

My mind witnessed a gradual change in the days that followed. My sanity was going down the hill with an upward and ever-increasing madness gripping me with all the fervour. Obsession it was. Mad obsession. I could not help but gaze at the portrait day in and day out hung on the grey wall. Staring at it for inexhaustible hours throughout the day had been a quotidian affair. It was ‘look at the portrait, go to work, come back home and look at it again’ business for me. What was so special about it? I did not know. But the portrait got me in a trance-like state each time I admired its fineness…its subtle realism, its sublime intricacies, and the brilliance of its bright colours. Who was she? Who had painted her? The painting seemed to have drawn me towards it in a way one could not explain. The oddity of it was intriguing and the raging curiosity in me was in a slow progress to swallow me. My distraction was conspicuous, both at home and at the workplace. I recall my mother being in total disapproval of my recent obsession after she found out I had forgotten to pick her up from the airport. It was my folly. She had indeed informed me the day before that she was flying to my city to meet her old and ailing cousin, Sunita. 

 

The insanity, I realised, was at its peak, when one day I decided to look up the anonymous painter. I had opened up my computer to Google his name, but I was clueless as to what I was going to put in the search bar. I sighed and shut the laptop.

 

One day, I woke up in the middle of the night to the portrait, glaring at me. I had my eyes fixated on it. The painting illuminated my dark room, casting a spectacular sheen. It exerted an enigmatic force toward me. That portrait. No, it was the Lady in it. Her mirror! The mystical energy came from the mirror she was holding in her hand. Inexplicable. Inscrutable. I got up and out of bed, and walked toward the painting hung on the wall. I took a closer look at it and found nothing extraordinary. There was nothing in it. Yet, there was something...something I quite could not place my hands on. I felt the energy encapsulating me in a powerful intensity that was beyond any explanation. But soon after, a sense of healing calm pervaded the air. It was imbued with a sense of quiet and serenity. Something that I had never experienced before. It felt different in a haunting way. It was moments later that I remember drifting into a deep slumber—a sleep devoid of any dreams...a deep sleep into the vortex of the unknown.

 

The deadline to submit my literary essay on The Quill was in the offing. I had, in the midst of my maddening obsession, forgotten all about it. It was Nisha who jogged my memory one day. “You have lost it, girl! Your memory is plummeting faster than the speed of light. Buckle up! This is your chance to make a space for yourself out there among the great writers.” She was right. But my memory, like my creativity, had taken a turn for the worse. It started to slowly merge in with the dampened earth. But I really needed to get my feet together. And I did.

 

It was a series of writing and then pressing the backspace to clear it all and writing again before pressing the delete button. Nothing came to mind. Absolutely nothing. What was I supposed to write about? Romance? Nah! Too cliché. Murder Mystery? Too complicated. Historical fantasy? Nope! I was too pressed for time to write one. So there it was...an empty, barren mind looking for an oasis in the vastness of sand dunes and the scorching heat of the Sun. As was my wont, with the laptop open and the mind in a perpetual search for ideas, I dozed off again with my head on the table.

 

My phone rang. It was Samar. I picked it up, half drowsy. “Yes?”. “You need to come with me tomorrow to the Vinci Museum. There is a grand international painting exhibition tomorrow and all famous artists and painters from around the world will be there to showcase their work. You will love it,” he said, seemingly excited at the prospect of it. I wanted to tell him that I did not need to look at more paintings because I had found the one I wanted, and it was with me, right in my room, within my direct line of vision. With that, I was about to turn my head toward where the painting was when my eyes fell on my computer screen. It was lit up. It was not supposed to be lit up, because I had dozed off for more than 20 minutes and the computer screen was supposed to snooze. But hang on! My Word file which I had left open previously was not empty. There were words typed on it. “I will come with you. I have something important to catch up on. Talk to you later.” I hung up. I was dazed. Flummoxed. I could not believe my eyes. I thought I was dreaming still, and it was all a part of the dream. But it was not. I sat up straight and looked at the screen. I did not type those. I had not typed a single letter, let alone a page full of words. Taking a deep breath, I started to read:

 

It was a fairytale with you. Your beatific smile, your long auburn hair cascading down your face so milky white, so fair, as the brightest cloud in a clear blue sky. Your eyes danced in a poetic rhythm, your lips perfected into an enchanting curve. You, my love, are the sweet melody my heart plays. Our memories play before me, serenade me as I look up at the stars, with your name on my lips, and your spectral face in my heart. How I long for you! How I wish you were here by my side, breathing the same air! You are, but now, a distant memory...a memory in eternity. Yet I sit and recall our times together—two souls entwined in a sweet arbor. The winds blow a pleasant fragrance to my window, as I get a whiff of your magic, brimming like a wine goblet below. My Lady Love. My Miracle. You were, but a fair budding blossom from the heavens above that entered into my life like a wild roaring fire. A mythical delight who swept me off my feet in a heartbeat. But, a void you created in the heavens above had to be filled in by your comely curve. Your bosom heaved in such misery, as you bade sweet farewell to our loving story. But, my love, I have my promises to keep, to have you forever by my side even in sleep. A portrait I have of you in bright hues, a portrait the world will see, my muse. And soon with you in heaven, I shall be, to have a forever with my love, you see.

 

With love,

 

G.D.

 

I went speechless for a minute. It was hauntingly beautiful. It was poignant. It was packed with a lot of emotions. G.D...who was it? Why would he write something so deeply personal on my computer? Wait a minute! How could he write anything on my computer? I was here. And not a single soul had entered by the time I was home. How? Oh. My. God. It struck me. The lady in question here...she was the lady in that portrait! It all became clear to me. G.D was the PAINTER! He had painted his lover after she had passed away. Why...it was not known. And he was dead, too. At this point, my goosebumps were apparent. It was all a blur. I had no idea what was going on. Fair writings about a lady in a portrait on my computer by a man who was allegedly her lover as well as the artist behind that sublime portrait was way too much for me to consume. For a moment, I thought I was in another realm of the world. I got up and walked towards the painting. Something had changed. Something about it did not seem like the way it was when I had brought it. I took a closer look. Drops. Tear drops running down her cheeks. That was it. The lady in the portrait had teardrops on her cheeks. I took a few steps back, not knowing what sorcery was all of it. But, I knew something. I knew what to write for the literary magazine. I went back to my computer, pulled up what one mysterious G.D had written, and e-mailed it to The Quill.

 

 

The ground floor of the Vinci Museum was crowded. I had not expected an art exhibition to be that crowded, fairly speaking. But turned out, a lot of people were interested in paintings. It was a pot-pourri of new and old arts. Both classical and modern paintings were on display. It gave a fair chance to first-time artists to portray their dreams. “I told you, it was going to be one of the best in the city!” Samar exclaimed. “Precisely. I marvel at the imaginative minds of these geniuses. They are so exquisite. The paintings, I mean.” This rang him a bell about my own unimaginative mind. “What about you? Did you figure out what to write for the magazine yet, or are you still stuck with ideas?” I could not tell him what had happened the evening before. No one would have believed me. I could not believe it myself. “Yes, I have started to write. A romantic prose poetry, more likely,” I said. I felt guilty because it was not my original idea, but was miraculously written for me by someone who had long ceased to exist in this physical realm. I excused myself to take a look at all the paintings hung beautifully on the walls. They shone fantastically under the incandescent lights. One man, I observed, had been standing in front of a portrait for quite some time. He was dressed in clothes that looked like they were from a different time. Curious, I walked up to him casually and stood beside him. “You must admire this painting a lot,” I said, attempting to start a conversation, like a social butterfly. The man, who looked like someone in his mid 40s, looked at me and smiled. “Indeed. Indeed.” He said nothing more. I knew he loved it. It was in his eyes...they sparkled in joy and in enigmatic pride, which I failed to understand. “Maybe you should consider buying it. You've been standing here, admiring this portrait for too long. Take it home,” I said playfully. He looked at me. It was a strange look that soon turned into a smirk. “The painter doesn't buy his own painting,” he said. “Oh! So it is your painting. Wonderful, I must say.” I turned to look at the painting. I had not, until then, given it a careful look. It was a lady with auburn hair, sitting by a willow, with a dried twig in her hand. A small basket of flowers lay beside her. And below the painting, at the bottom right corner, were the initials ‘G.D’. A chill ran down my spine. I turned around to look for that man only to find him gone.

 

 

A month later, my article got published in the magazine under the title ‘The Ancient Portrait’. It received great appreciation from people. I truly was not expecting it, but it happened. A miracle happened. It was magic. One Sunday morning, as I was going through the comments on my article, somebody rang my doorbell. I opened the door to find no one out there. Instead, there was, what looked like, a gift left by the door with a note attached to it. I brought it inside and unwrapped it. It was the portrait of the lady in auburn hair, sitting by the willow with a dried twig in her hand. I opened the note. It read: Congratulations on your article. I hope you like this painting. See you soon. G.D.