Life had been kind to me till that day, maybe even a blessing. All

planned. All under control. Till that moment. Till her.

I had been born with a passion. And that was to sketch life, upon

canvas. I loved the way life ebbs onto a blank sheet with some

strokes, some colours. I loved the feel of creation.

But in an upper middle class family in the suburb of Ahmedabad, one

couldn’t just afford to go behind one’s passions. My life had been

set. Not by me, but by everyone but me. Until I decided to break free.

I convinced my parents that a boy could survive, and support a family

being an artist. Sure, it would be difficult, but I felt an

exhilaration, to come face to face with my passion.

So, after getting enrolled in a prominent arts school in Mumbai, i

started living the city, loving the city... The salty air and the

grey-ochre pallor gave wings to my imagination and creativity. Three

years had passed before I reached the point when we started sketching

human anatomy. The beauty in nudity was to be portrayed. And that was

our assignment.

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I took a deep breath, and opened my eyes. I gave a silent call for the

muses and started. Took the palette and the scalpel and opened my

senses. The dim sun was streaming in through the windows of my studio.

It had just rained, and the air tasted of rain. Her golden skin gave a

silver sheen when the light rays struck her.

A blank and emotionless picture of indifference – her body. Save her

eyes. Those deep, lowered eyes couldn’t hide her pain. They screamed

for mercy, gave a thousand colours to emotions any artist could dream

of. Poverty was her weakness, making her go nude in front of a random

stranger. Her poverty was my instrument, to create a masterpiece.

I took her pain, and painted. Black and white and grey. I worked on

the canvas. Shaped out her curves, chiselling her contours, I drew

her. Black and white and grey.

She sat there. Her knees drawn up, her arms clasped around them. A

grey shroud covering her hair, slumped on the floor beside her supple

rumps. Her soft round face, and her soft earlobes, dimpled chin. Her

delicate lips where a kiss lingered…

I painted them all. I painted the promise of a kiss. I drew the

softness of her face.

Two locks of her curly black hair fell on her forehead, damp with

sweat. I wondered if it’s the humidity. I hoped it is not just that.

Those two curls from medusa’s locks, both wove a tale, playing,

teasing… made love to each other. A foreplay on their own.

I sketched her locks. Black and white and grey.

Her arms, graceful. Supple. Human. Tender flesh clothed in honeyed

skin. Each of her curves a delicacy. Her voluptuous breasts taut, yet

soft in sight. Smooth. Round. Full. Each a teasing half-moon. A scoop

of creamy butter. Mouthful. The soft pale skin a delicacy. Folded in

and out, in and out, over the creamy whites of her stomach. The tiny

bulge of her waist-line, waited to be tugged, pinched and bitten. Till

bluish bruises adorn it.

Her spine curved to a crescent, creasing her bottoms. Her smooth

thighs caught the light seeping in, shimmered like purest satin. With

all her imperfections, it was a perfect amalgam of all things

beautiful.

My eyes wandered to the space between her thighs. Forbidden.

Unwelcome. The one place where all her essence, all her flesh melted

to one point. I touched her with my eyes. Touched her all over,

caressing her, making her mine. My eyes feasting on her… A frenzy of

mad pulsations set forth within me. My throat parched, a thousand

blood vessels worked in union against my brain, and set me on fire.

Her eyes suddenly darted to my lustful ones.

I had stopped painting.

And in that yellow-grey studio, even the constant thump of Mumbai

seemed to go silent. The room reverberated with the madding beats of

my heart, and the blood it sent pumping to my veins.

I was one with a passion I never knew of. A world where I couldn’t

just create, a world that I had to know and feel as it unfurls before

me.

I walked, drifting towards her eyes – two black stars set in a white

sky. They were scared, yet certain of an inevitability that her body

recognised. Her lax posture was suddenly an alert one, each tiny pore

of her skin aroused. Her head rose to meet my gaze, her arms pulling

her legs closer shielding her from me, her eyes pleaded.

Two unsteady arms reached out, I wanted to tell her everything was

alright, wanted to comfort her, saying I couldn’t harm her. But

neither did words come out of my mouth, nor did raw instincts let me

lie. The arms that were meant to protect instead had found her soft

damp curls, smoothened it out on her face, and then closed her eyes.

And I kissed those black stars. I was on my knees, my fingertips

getting to know all that my eyes had felt. She shuddered and twisted

beneath my touch and my ragged breath on her neck and arms left a

trail of goose-bumps on her skin. I pulled down the shroud on her

head, and let it fall to the ground, next to her back. Her long hair

unravelled out to meet her lower spine, and caught on the beads of

perspiration.

Her neck and her navel were the sources of a divine perfume that was

cherished in the underbelly of the city. A mix of camphor, lavender,

salt, dirt. An elixir to my senses. I could not return from there now.

And I kissed her, savouring her salted sweaty sweetness, her shy kiss,

and her warmth, while my hands familiarised her contours. Our bodies

set forth a rhythm on the naked ground… little specks of dirt forming

constellations on her skin when they touched the ground each time.

Starry-eyed, we scaled together, comatose.

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Did I love her? I never knew.

While I lay on my back partly in shock, part terror, part awkwardness,

she rose and draped herself. Her otherwise silent vocal cords strained

and put forth a demand. “Money”, her coral lips mouthed. I got up,

paid her wages for the day as pre-arranged. Her black-star eyes groped

my soul, the ruby red mouth formed another shape, and my ears picked

up a monosyllable. “More”. With a numbness, I fumbled through my

pockets for a few more notes.

She left. And I was left. Left alone with my canvass that had some

random strokes. Of black and white and grey.

I held the brush, dipped in a new colour and started painting her from

my memory. My eyes hands mouth body, all joined to recreate her.

Through the dusky sunlight, I finished my work. I had my nude sketch.

Black white grey, and red.

Maybe I loved her; maybe not. Maybe she remembers me; mostly not. But

all I know is that even after 7 years, and a better life, the salty

winds of Mumbai after rains always reminded me of her. Her black eyes,

her salty smell, the taste of dust on her neck, and her pale golden

skin that gave a moonlight glow. Maybe…