THE PORTRAIT

At which point of time I lost my heart to her, I do not remember now. I only know that the thin line dividing sanity and insanity is thinning. Sometimes I feel my brain will have a breakdown and I will be literally lost to the world. Is this what love can do? Don’t they say love transforms? Or does it stagnate? Any which way you look at it I am the loser. Now I am beginning to think whether at all there was this phase in my life when I really met her, loved her or was it all a figment of my own imagination only to wake up to find myself alone, indescribably lonely. Am I going to be one of those walking about the street like a madman in love? The horror of realization is too much; the despair is too great indeed.

I wish it had all been a dream from which I would wake up and sigh and laugh that it really didn’t take place after all. But no, it isn’t a dream for I haven’t slept for a long time. Sleep eludes me. If I close my eyes I see her smiling face and his serious countenance (that man’s…that man in her bed room), his serene visage mocking at me. They intermingle and torment me.

Now I have all the time in this world for myself. It hurts, the emptiness hurts and the pain is unbearable. Isn’t it easy to say ‘you are free, do your duties unto yourself and to your loved ones?’ What is available in me now to do my duties? I am spent, broken up from inside. I am left with incapacity to reason out with myself.

I want to string all the words into a garland so as to wear it on me and allow its fragrance to linger on forever. What if I had not left her room? What if I had kept vigil on her and followed her wherever she went? Even if it meant to the end of the world? But she would not have allowed. She would have detested me to linger even a minute more after the dismissal and I would never have done anything to earn her displeasure. She would never have yielded. Her love was not the love of this physical world to hover over physical body, seeking fleeting pleasures. It was something ‘god knows what’ kind of love.

Let me look at it dispassionately and gather words to decipher my thoughts. When did I first meet her? In the studio. I had gone to pay Nicky’s fees. He was down with viral fever and requested me to fill the form and pay the fees. He was habituated to find weird ideas to spend his time. This time it was an Art course. It was the last day to enroll and the first day of the painting class.

Though initially I protested complaining of lack of time, I agreed to go. I paid the fees and took the receipt and not knowing why I did what I did, I peeped into the class room and she was there standing erect, so slim, tall, fair, her hair neatly combed back behind the ears and clipped, the curls falling on her nape, her face so earnest like that of a saint’s, her eyes behind the anti-glare glasses, seemed soulful and solemn. She looked at me and beckoned me to come in and sit. She pointed to a vacant chair in front of her. I wanted to tell her that I wasn’t enrolled for this class, that I was a student of literature. But she gave no time and busied herself to give her welcome speech. I thought it useless to clarify anything. After all I was only substituting for Nicky.

I learnt her name was Zena. It meant ‘Beautiful Ornament’ in Greek culture.  There was something about her eyes, her fingers; they looked so beautiful and strange.  I noticed that her fingers were unusually long, slender, artistic and oval at the tip. Her nails were filed and polished. There was a stillness about her that was austere. She smiled as she spoke and this made her charming—I had not seen anyone more endearing from such close quarters. I liked her immensely. Every word she spoke aroused in me something that lay dormant for years. It was like a spark that began to burn, lighting my inner being. Her voice was clean, crisp, crystal clear, firm and yet gentle. Her voice had in it that power to immobilize me.

Her words were intense when she addressed, very restrained and I thought perhaps she was like that—intense and firmly repressed. How am I to know?

Her thoughts did not leave me free to do my work.

I attended the class the next day and the next. Nicky was very ill and in his absentia I substituted him. I who had no concept of painting sat in her class only to be near her, to see her, to enjoy her presence all the more. I did not know then it was fatal to love her.

I asked myself several days ‘what did I love in her?’ I did not know. But I loved her may be in an exaggerated way and wanted to see her, be close to her in every waking hour of mine. I was aware that I was slowly losing my calm and clear thinking. But nothing mattered.

I loved to see her holding the brush in hand and paint stroke after stroke. The dexterity of her fingers transfixed me, the ease with which she handled the palette, and the ease with which she mixed colors; it was all effortless for her. She had already given us a list of necessary supplies for the painting class. The list included different types of brushes, oil paints, disposable palettes, waxed papers, and canvas first and later board for holding the canvas of personal choice.

I did not possess even the basic idea of painting. But I bought all the items to impress her and pretended to learn.

It was raining heavily outside and the class was busy painting something. She came and stood at my side. My canvas was empty. “Get started,” she said softly peering deeply into my eyes. Many were talking by their easel. She was taking her rounds. My heart was aflutter. She would have sensed it. I wanted to see her again and again at my side. My eyes followed her wherever she went. She shot a glance at me and smiled. My heart did a somersault.

Outside the class room when we met she smiled at me and I saw a twinkle in her eyes.

“Wait,” she said. Her words coming from behind me brought me to a jolt. I turned round. She beckoned to me. I should have confessed to her then that I wasn’t her student but I didn’t. She made me comfortable by giving me some lessons on painting. I asked her all nonsensical questions on painting, drawing, sketching but she didn’t seem to mind. She answered them and looked like she was eager to hold me in some conversation. There was a sort of controlled earnestness in her voice. She smiled very often at me. Her eyes rested on my face. Were they searching for something or was it my fancy to think so? Anyone could love her for her eyes. They had too much power in them to captivate, to enslave or to bind. As for me I lost myself in them, I was entranced from the start.

When I walked back home I felt elated, intoxicated. Her voice, her smile, her gentle words enthralled me. The traffic was flowing continuously, the noise was blaring, dusk was settling and street lights were coming on one by one. My heart repeated ‘Zena, Zena,’ and every time it sent a pleasant feeling through my body. The footpath was wet after the shower. In spite of that the street was crowded and the shops were lighted with people flocking in and out.

The next day when I met her, she smiled at me biting her lips. “Do you have anything more to ask?” she asked. She was dressed in brown. It suited her. “Yes, I have plenty of questions.” I said. “You can ask me after the class.”
So it became a habit to wait and talk with her other than painting. I wanted to know everything about her. Everything. She said she came from a different state. It was her first visit to Mumbai. While she was talking, I noticed how delicate her throat looked, how delicate her hands were; and I had an urge to hug her tightly and kiss her like a madman. She stopped suddenly and asked me what the matter was. I stammered a reply and looked away. It was too much of an effort to look normal.

“Do you like travelling?” I asked her.

“Yes,” she said. “Why, do you have any idea of taking me around Mumbai?”

“Not a bad idea,” I said. “Let’s go out and talk in the open space. This room suffocates me.”

“Where do you suggest?”

“Anywhere.”

“But remember I am new to this place.”

“Where do you stay?”

“In Carter Road.”

“Alone?”

“Yes.” She said and smiled. I felt relieved. I loved her madly. She was so lively, so spontaneous, so vivid, vibrant and artful.

I could not ask any further personal questions. She was too controlled in replying, too careful. What did I want to know? I sensed some impatience, some urgency inside me to know and understand her.

“If you are free tomorrow we may go somewhere and talk. But remember I do not know any place in Mumbai.”

“Done. I am free tomorrow. We can go to town side or even the reverse. We might go to some Mall, sit in the food court and talk.”

I met her informally near the taxi stand and we took a taxi to the Mall. There was continuous flow of people and music. The cold air was saturated with the smell of popcorns and perfumes.

We went to the food court and sat at a table. I bought cappuccino from CCD and we sipped slowly. Topics tumbled out automatically and unaware of the passing time we spoke leisurely. It was so comforting talking with her. Her eyes danced before me, her face so radiant and full of laughter.

“Next week there is an auction at the Art gallery. If you are free you can come, “she said.

“Are you displaying any of your portraits?” I asked her.

“No.” she said nonchalantly.

I dropped her back at the taxi stand and walked away in a dream. Her face and eyes and words danced before my eyes again and again. I wondered if she also thought of me as frequently as I thought of her.

I went to the Art gallery.  Zena was there dressed in pink, looking gorgeous. She smiled at me and we went round the place slowly taking a good look at all the portraits. She gave a running commentary on the pictures, frames, hues, themes, art and skill of portraying an idea etc. I did not reveal my ignorance to her. I heard her silently. Her voice was like music to my soul. I wasn’t aware of anything but herself and the fact that we were together. To me this was like bliss never known earlier.

The room was filled with people, all belonging to upper echelon, dainty, perfumed and elegant. Their voices rose slowly and steadily. It was like a mingled wish for something afresh.

Zena touched my sleeve and pulled me by my arm to tell me something. I bent my head to listen to her. I was filled with some intolerable pleasure and my heart pounded against my ribs. I slid my arm around her waist and drew her closer to me to hear her. ‘How delicate she was!’

“Shall we have some coffee?”

“Yes,” I said.

We sat in the canteen and I ordered for coffee and sandwich.

It was the best moment of my life. I had no more wants, no more desire except that this moment should go on forever. Later when dusk fell, we departed.

Back in my room I paced up and down recalling the exquisite feeling. It was already etched on my heart for eternity. Exhausted I sat on my bed and reclined. I wasn’t aware when my eyes closed. I fell into a dreamless sleep…

My friend Nicky was still quite ill to attend the class. I never told him about my experiences.

“Jove! What’s the matter with you?” he had asked me once. “You have changed a lot.”

I evaded his question and talked of other things all crap.

“If I had known this illness is going to keep me in bed for so long, I wouldn’t have enrolled for the class.” he said. In the heart of my heart I wished his illness would continue for a longer time. How could I be so wicked?

In fact I was happy that he enrolled for this class. Or else how could I have met Zena and known love? Yes, I was in love with her and suddenly had an urge to tell her this.

In the next class she came to my side and said, “You don’t seem to have the painting streak in you,” and laughed. I felt like a fool but laughed with her. Then I cursed myself for not having this gift of painting. She lifted the brush and painted something so quickly. It looked like a parrot but on closer examination it was a man reclining like a parrot. Everyone admired her for her talent and swiftness.   At such times she only had a faint smile on her face.

“I admire your talent,” I told her.

“I drew that for you. Sometimes you remind me of a child wanting to be caressed and sometimes you remind me of……” her voice trailed off

“Remind you of….. What?” I asked her.

But she didn’t reply. My heart was dancing within me. ‘So I remind her of someone, that’s why she is friendly with me.’ I thought. She came back and laughed and said, “Well you remind me of some bird.”

“That’s not true.” I said.

”Yes, it is.” She said and winked. Her eyes danced with a twinkle.

When she saw my crestfallen face she quickly said, “I just joked, my dear.”

“Do you paint for anyone or only to please yourself?” I asked.

“Mostly to please myself.” She said. “Don’t ask anything more.”

“You know, I want to tell you something. Ever since I saw you I had only been thinking about you. I am sure you are aware of this.  I need to talk about us. Where can we meet?”

I waited for an answer but she stared beyond me and walked away without giving an answer.

I waited till all the students departed and went to her. She looked up and asked me if I needed anything. “Yes, I want to meet you alone again somewhere, I need to talk with you, talk my heart.”

“Well, I don’t know. I will be busy with many things. May be we can meet after a fortnight. But what is it you want to tell me?”

“That I will tell when we meet, alone, somewhere. Give me your address….please, I would like to see your house. Or at least give me a landmark. I will find it for myself.”

“My flat is behind the Platinum Mall in Carter Road.” She walked away quickly leaving me staring after her.

She did not take the class for three consecutive days, then followed public holidays for festivals. The days and nights seemed long and endless. I walked about the street like a real raver, unaware of life flowing around me, unaware of activities galloping around me. I had only her thoughts. And her thoughts tormented me ceaselessly.

Unable to withstand it any longer I decided to go to her place of residence. I went to the Mall and wandered beyond searching for her house. I tracked it, but dared not go there. Instead I languished in the Mall. Then I spotted her in the Mall looking for something. I ambled across to her. She was surprised to see me. She was in a simple dress and in sheepskin slippers. Her hair was lying loose on her shoulders. She looked beautiful. She had a basket in her hand. There was hardly anything in it.

She smiled and began speaking rapidly. I wanted to tell her how much I missed her, but she gave no chance to speak about us. Her topics veered from one to the other and all the while her eyes were examining the product she picked from the rack. I followed her wherever she went. On the elevator she looked straight into my eyes and smiled. There was something so nunnish about her as if she was leading a consecrated life. She filled up the intermittent silence with questions like, “So how’s your painting going on? Have you improved your skills?”

I found her very detached. She was forcing herself to speak. Maybe she was bored of me, bored of my nearness, bored of my persistence in meeting her, or following her. The pauses, silences grew longer between us, until at one time I thought she had forgotten my existence. Then suddenly she smiled at me and said, “Say something.” I couldn’t tell her all that I wanted to tell. I shook my head and walked with her, my hands in my pockets.  Her coldness frustrated me. She was an enigma to me. If I recall, she had hardly spoken about herself, her life, her past, her dreams, and all that. Will I ever come to know her fully? What lies beneath her concealments, her silences, her coldness, her stubbornness in not coming closer to me?

So many questions crowded my mind. I felt torn by doubts and jealousy. Why was I feeling jealous, I did not know. All these words were mere words of few syllables so far to me, jealousy, love, possessiveness, doubts, longing, etc. but now I was actually feeling some of these feelings. Where was I heading? There must have been other people too in her life. This thought drove me crazy, though I did not know why. Will I ever know? But the moment I recalled how she looked at me with bashful eyes all my doubts and agony vanished into thin air and the thought that she is pure like a child came to me.

The sky was suddenly overcast and rain fell in torrents. I sat looking outside through my window. I couldn’t bear the silence of my room, the silence I used to love, enjoy reading classics, and preparing notes. I had missed out on my studies. A project was pending. Examination was nearing. But my heart was engulfed with thoughts of Zena. I should have asked her for her cell number. Would she have given? The predominant thoughts in my mind were centered on her; are there also others in her life? Does she love anyone else? Does she love me? Time hung heavily in my heart. I picked up a book to read. But her face appeared on the pages and I threw the book aside. Am I turning paranoid about her? Is my love for her becoming an obsession?

Sometimes I felt she loved me truly, sometimes I felt she evaded me when she saw me, sometimes I saw the same lighted flame, the glint in her eyes for others too, sometimes I felt her mission was to make everyone happy by being good to them, by lavishly showering compliments, by making everyone feel important, sometimes I felt she was filling time with me. But why should she? What sort of misery was this?

At long last, the class commenced. After the class, I met her for a brief time. She asked me what I was planning to do the weekend. I was elated. We met at the taxi stand again and took a walk. She told me what all she did during the holidays. To me it was like rising from the dead once again, an upward swing of mood, an elation never known so far; it was like I was being rebuilt with her words and talks. Did I not live before I met her? How did I live? Was I not happy then? What am I made of? I had no answer to many of my questions.

I told her how I had been constantly thinking of her and her life. I told her how difficult the past few days were without meeting her.

“Are you becoming possessive of me?” she asked. “Please don’t. It will lead you nowhere. Possessiveness is born out of insecurity. It’s a negative feeling. Of what use it is to be possessive?”

“So where do you think this friendship is leading us? I asked her.

She shrugged her shoulders and smiled.

“Learn to keep your emotions under control then everything will work out fine for you. Take one step at a time and don’t think too much about anything. After all nothing ever is permanent in life, nothing can ever be. Everything is changing including all equations of relationships. Don’t have to take life so seriously. Every friendship need not end in marriage.”

We walked in silence on our way back, her looking calm and unruffled and me totally thrown out of gear.

Back home, again my mood swung back to despondency. I was blinded by my love for her. Doubts, uncertainties, qualms tugged at my heart….

A couple of days passed and when I felt I couldn’t contain my feelings any longer I went to her house to tell her my heart. I rang the bell and all the while my heart was pounding. She opened the door and was utterly surprised to see me.

Her flat was just one bed room hall kitchen. The house was neat and spotlessly clean, bright and silent. Everything seemed to be in the right place. She was so slim and dainty in her house coat and slippers. She had put on soft instrumental music and was in the midst of painting. There were paint marks on her fingers. She took me by my arm and I hugged her warmly. She pushed me aside and began to talk rapidly about the painting, about her desire to exhibit her paintings. In all this I sensed some undercurrent of sorrow. I could have been wrong too. “Zena, I am sorry I came like this without informing you.”

“That’s okay,” she said.

I looked about her flat. Her drawing room was quite large and bare with just two sofa sets and a small table, two three chairs, and a television set. Her kitchen was spic and span. She made me sit and went inside and brought me a glass of water and some biscuits and cold drink on a tray and set them down on the table. The whole set up again reminded me of a nun’s room, very sparsely made-up, plain and simple, set apart from the ordinary mundane life. The curtains fluttered in the breeze. It was so peaceful in here and yet there was a tinge of sorrow in the whole set-up. Zena was so enigmatic.

She turned to painting again and turned back, looking at me she said, “Have the cold drink. Feel comfortable.”

I opened the can and began drinking. “You paint beautifully.” I said.

“I can sketch your face right now. Just wait.” She took out a small drawing sheet and sketched my face and handed it to me. I felt I looked into a mirror, my jaw bone was prominent. I put it in my wallet and said I would preserve it as a memento. She gave me her hand all of a sudden and I took it and pressed it and kissed it. How soft and warm she was! “Zena, don’t do this to me. You know I love you so much and want you ever so much.”

“Love is too serious a thing for me. One can love even the non subsistence and non existence so much as to surrender one’s soul to it.”

“Zena, I don’t understand what you are saying. But I can’t live without you.”

“Ache and bliss, pain and pleasure, are part of love, they spring from love, they blend together, intermingle I mean. People die for love; they become martyrs, what of that?”

“I’m confused.” I said and fell silent. She was quite puzzling. Then she came to me and stood in front of me her hands locked behind. She looked at me with earnest eyes. I stroked her face and tried to kiss her. She turned her face away. I took her in my arms and held her close to my heart. She never responded to my love making. I left her free. Then she straightened herself and gave me a tight hug.

“There,” she said, “Love is not just a matter of physicality. Do you know what I mean by this? Well, physicality is predominance of the physical only and usually at the expense of the mental, spiritual, or social control in it.” Then after a pause she continued, “Is it necessary to have the sex aspect in love? Can’t people love without any sex in relationship? To love unconditionally, irrespective of sexual characteristics is real and long lasting love.”

I felt small in front of her. ‘What have I done to her?’ In the framework she had provided to me of love I had to ask myself if I could love her unconditionally.

The sun had set and slowly dusk was gathering in. Shadows began to creep along the walls. I wasn’t aware of time. How quickly time had passed. She got up from her chair and said come with me. She took my hand and led me to her bedroom.

“I want to show you something.” She said and opened the door. The room was quite small and square shaped. I saw a small narrow bed along the wall. It again reminded me of a nun’s cubicle, quite empty and bare. The curtains were drawn aside, still some daylight peeped into the room otherwise the room was in semi darkness. Then suddenly I became aware of the presence of a semi-clad man standing silhouetted against the curtains. He was bleeding. His wounds were raw and he was in abject pain. His face looked calm and serene as if he was a silent sufferer.

An eerie feeling crept into my heart. I stared at the man; his countenance became clear to me. His eyes were still and bore holes into my being. It took several minutes for me to know that it was a painting and not a real man. Then Zena switched on the light. I could clearly see the portrait. It was life-sized and so real. The portrait of a man wounded, bleeding and on the point of death. His hands were clasped on his wounds and blood was flowing over his fingers. I turned away from the portrait. I couldn’t bear to see it. But his face was etched in my mind. His eyes radiated compassion and mercy; there was blood on his forehead too. It was the face of a virtuous puritan.

What did it all mean? Why did Zena paint such a portrait? I became aware of some strange feelings in me; feelings of disappointment, sadness, and also a helpless feeling that was nameless.

She was intently watching me. At last I found my voice and asked her, “Who is he, Zena?” “And what is the meaning of all this?”

“You won’t understand, I have done this in honor and reverence of the precious blood, that you see gushing from the wounds, which is a promise to save us. What I am doing is rehearsing a past that continues to live on in my emotional appreciation of the world. Sacrifice lives beyond the grave.”

And then I saw tears flowing down her cheeks. I tried to comfort her. I put an arm around her but she pushed me aside.

“Zena, I love you in an ordinary way. I want to live with you. Tell me what you are going to do with life?” she was impossible and inflexible. She didn’t answer. “At least please tell me what my position is with you? You love me, don’t you? All the times we went out, the times we were together, happy, chatting; wasn’t that love?”

She smiled at last. “Sorry for being emotional. Do you expect me to love you the way you love me? That is impossible. It was all a mistake. My mistake. It must have happened in a hurry. So please don’t call out anything that happened between us. They mean nothing to me. I don’t love you, not the way you do. Please go away and do your duties to yourself and to your family. Leave me alone. My world is different. I do not deny my identity or obliterate it. But my love is sublime and not of this world. I do not need the likes of you. Please go away and don’t try to meet me again.” And she showed me the door.

Yes, something snapped in me. I went out and heard the door shutting behind me. Tears trickled down my cheeks. One question reappeared to my mind. Who was the man in the portrait? He did remind me of ‘Scourging of Christ.’ But it could also be someone she might have loved and died in an accident. I will never know the truth.

Nicky recuperated and bouncing back into life announced that he would attend the Art class from the following evening. He was very upbeat about the class. I picked an excuse to go with him, saying that he needed an escort for the first time out after his illness.

We waited in the class for her to come. Unusually the class room was bright and a shaft of sunlight fell on the desk and flickered on the metal screws.  My eyes never left the door. ‘Now the door would open and she would walk in with a smile’ I thought and waited anxiously. Time ticked slowly and the door opened and in came a short, stocky built man smiling from ear to ear. His short thick stubby fingers held the palette and canvas and paint brushes. He introduced himself as Mr. Diego. I was puzzled.

I excused myself and went out of the class. I went straight to the office to enquire about Zena. “Excuse me Ma’am, what happened to Ma’am Zena? Why hasn’t she come?”

The clerk looked up at me and said, “She was a substitute for Mr. Diego. She’s gone.”

I was taken aback and my head spun for a moment. “Oh, God,” I murmured under my breath.  Then gathering my wits around me I taxied down to Carter Road and ambled up to her building. I made a dash into the building and hurried to the inner gate. The watchman was busy with some work. I managed to reach the lift and pressed the button to call it. I was in a hurry to get into it.

The watchman stopped me to enquire, opening the register to record my entry. I told him I was Zena’s visitor. He said she had already gone vacated the flat. I asked him frantically where she had gone. He revealed his ignorance and only said she had vacated the flat a couple of days back and asserted that he saw her leaving with two suitcases like the way she had come with them. I stood staring at him. The lift came down and the doors opened and closed again.

I walked in a daze, sadly not knowing whether it was all real, whether I really experienced all these in such a short while. Was Zena real? Or was she just my fancy? Or a living spirit who taught me what is love and vanished.

–END–