•|cracks|•

Agastya

Sunlight spilled through the window, casting an orange glow to the office. I blinked, startled at how easily time had passed. It was difficult to keep track of time when I was working.

My eyes once again strayed to the half opened laptop sitting on the desk. I sighed. If I continue to look at the screen anymore my eyeballs will fall off and curse me black and blue.

Exhaustion weighed heavily behind my eyelids, days of sleeplessness catching up to me but I couldn't afford that, not when the inauguration of our new hotel was on the way.

Sighing again, I open the laptop, the words and numbers all swimming and making zero sense. Trying to concentrate and make it all make sense I analyze the documents.

I look up lethargically when someone knocks on my cabin door. “Come in.”

Vikram steps forward, a frown marrying his soft features, “I think you've worked enough for a day sir. You should wrap it up and get home soon. I'll take care of the rest of it. I promise.” He says, almost placating, like talking to a five year old child.

I try my best to summon the glare, which was dubbed as the Death Glare around here, but my eyelids droop and spots of blackness twinkles in my vision. My mouth must've said something, because the next time I concentrate on his face it is filled with apprehension and exasperation.

“I'm sorry sir. But you've to go rest.” He says firmly before leaving the cabin.

Who is he to order me around? He is just an employee I pay for and nothing else. I stand up on shaky legs, to berate him on his tardiness and unprofessionalism but just as I stand straight on my legs they give out under me. The last sound I heard is something hitting on the floor with a large thud.

My eyelids blink open once again and shut just as fast when sunlight hit my eyes with full force. Adjusting to it I open my eyes to my whole family surrounded by me.

Worry and concern was etched on their faces and confusion evaded me. Why are they so concerned? And what am I doing in the bedroom and not in my office?

“What happened?” I asked.

Papa stepped forward, “You fainted, exhausted and not getting much sleep and food. I've told you several times to not overwork yourself. See, this is what happens if you don't listen to me. And why will you listen to me right? I am just your old man. Now you've gone and got everyone concerned just because you couldn't do the one thing I asked you to.” He finished, his face red with anger and left the room in a huff.

Embarrassment and shame engulfed me and true to Papa's words everyone was looking at me with a fair share of concern. Even she stood in the back looking slightly relieved.

“Aap theek ho?” A soft question reverberated through the room, my head snapping up to look at the owner of the voice.

Kedar stood slightly behind everyone perplexed, unsure and a little bit of worry dancing on his face. He was easy to read, wearing his heart on his sleeve, it was easy to crush someone like him, to destroy him into nothing. It made him even more complicated than I thought.

Nodding, I said, “I'm fine. I would like some time alone.” The crowd gathered in the room left, the only one remaining, my husband who looks like a deer that was caught in the headlights. If the exhaustion didn't weigh on me I would've laughed.

“Do you need anything?”

“No.”

“Should I go?”

“I don't care, just don't make much noise. I just want to rest.”

“Oh. Ok.”

I closed my eyes, hearing rustling before things settled down, then it was complete silence. I basked in it. It wasn't often I got to enjoy moments of silence without any interruptions. Something always came up sometimes as deals or sometimes the four walls of this home suffocated me.

It was hard to sit somewhere and close your eyes without thinking about anything in particular.

I don't know how long I sat there like that, my mind at ease and body relaxed.

Shame and embarrassment still lurked in my mind. It wasn't often that Papa got angry with me. He rarely even spoke to me if it was not regarding business. I didn't resent him for it. I understood the turmoils one has to withstand when they are in this cutthroat world of business. But standing straight in this world takes out all the soft in someone and that was what happened to him.

Now though, when he scolded me like that in front of her and Kedar, it felt humiliating. It wasn't like I deliberately wanted to faint and not take care of my health. I was genuinely busy with everything that was going on with our new hotel and I didn't get enough time to take care of myself.

I felt like nine once again, scoring very low in math and standing before him to show the paper only to be ridiculed and made fun of in front of the whole family.

That nine year old is now a man of thirty three who had seen and heard things no one would ever dream of yet some of the boiled over resentment welled up in me. He wasn't there during my childhood citing his commitment to the business. He wasn't there to take care of Siya, when Ma died. He wasn't there to comfort me when he brought her to this house. I had buried it in a corner of my mind, one only I can see and feel.

The ease that had entered my mind completely vanished at the thought of my father. Restlessness took over me and I opened my eyes.

Kedar stood with his back to me, his hands seamlessly moving back and forth on the white canvas in front of him. There was a half finished picture on there,  a silhouette of a woman that was still being painted.

He was unaware of my scrutiny, slightly swaying to the tunes only he could hear.

Kedar was a complex creature, one that needed time and care to study. I didn't have that nor did I have any interest in him. But sometimes, things he does intrigued me, like agreeing with me on the truce. It surprised me, believing and trusting me so eagerly, without any hesitation or doubting. He won't survive in this world or if he does he will lose the stupid naivety that he carries around.

I tapped his shoulder and he spun around, fear blazing in the brilliant molten gold. It didn't recede when he saw who had disturbed him, if anything it only increased a notch.

“Kya chahiye aapko?” [What do you want?] He asked, his voice steady, not betraying even a tiny bit of fear that was evident in his eyes.

Side stepping his question I probed, “Tum paint karte ho?” [Do you paint?]

There was a slight shift in his demeanor, he turned towards the painting blocking it from my vision, “Kyu?” [Why?] A single word but it was filled with defensiveness.

“Bas aise hi puch raha tha. Kabse shuru kiya?” [Just asking. When did it start?] Maybe he sensed my genuine interest in his hobbies or he was really desperate to talk about his painting. Either way he turned around, still defensive in his stance as though I would attack him and his creation the moment he lost his concentration.

“Itna interest kyu hai isme?” [Why so much interest in this?] Without answering me, he asked.

“Are baap re tum mera pati hai ek husband uske pati se unke hobbies ke baare mein puch nahi sakte ho kya? Iske liya court se koi permission lena chahiye? Agar man hai jawab do warna mujhe kya.” [Oh my god can't a husband ask his husband what his hobbies are? Do I have to take permission from the court? If you want to answer then say or else I don't have any interest.]

Dramatics flowed in our blood. From forefathers to the current generation we are ardent fans of drama and all of us had a gene in us that was filled with dramatics and I used it on my poor unsuspecting husband.

I turned around, feet poised to walk away and just in time he called out. “Jab che saal ka tha Samaira ne coloring book dila de, usse shuru hui. Aur phir jab man chahte hai tab paint karta hai.” [When I was 6 years old Samaira presented me with a coloring book. It started from there and whenever I feel like it I draw and paint.] He admitted rather reluctantly.

“Ye sab waste of time nahi lagta? Bacchon jaise harkate.” [Don't you think it is a waste of time. Childish habits.]

“Aur lakh aur crore kamane wala artist paint kiya hua picture jo waha latka hua hai, uska kya lagta?” [And what about the expensive pictures painted by artists hanging on the wall?]

“Woh acche picture banate hai aur tum kya banate ho, ladkiyon ki?” [They make good pictures and you, what do you draw? Girls?]

“Woh ladki nahi meri maa hai. Mere pass unke koi picture nahi hai isliye main unhe paint kar rahi hu.” [It's not a girl but my mother. I don't have any pictures of her so I painted her.]

His admission shocked me. The fact that Sadhana Rajawat and her husband Kabir had died in an accident wasn't news to me but what surprised me is the fact that he doesn't have a photo of his own mother.

I have a dead mother whose picture I keep in my wallet and that will be how it is till the day I die. It perplexes me on how a child can be that careless and irresponsible.

I nod, recovering from the various emotions coursing through me. “Yeh jo tum paint kar rahi ho usko sab kaha rakhte ho?” [Where do you keep these pictures?] I air my doubts.

“Meri hi room mein rakhte hu.” [In my room only.]

“Lekin meine yahi kahi dekhi nahi hai?” [But I haven't seen any?]

“Is room mein nahi waha mere apne kamre mein rakha hai.” [Not here but in my room there.]

“Tumhe koi shanti ya aisa kuch milta hai isse?” [Do you get any peace by doing this?]

He laughed, “Yeh kaisa sawal hai? Jab tum apna pasand ki kaam karte ho, usme shanti aur khushi aur jo bhi ho woh sab milte hai.” [What kind of question is this? When you do something you love then you'll find happiness and peace in it.]

He turns around brush flicking through the canvas.

“Aisa kuch nahi hai, log bas aise kehte hain unko sukoon milta hai but actually woh stoned ya high hote hai.” [That's not true they just say it but in actual they are either stoned or high.]

“Tumhe jo accha lage wohi tum viswas karo iska matlab yeh nahi ki mein apni pasand mein khushi nahi dhundu. Aur aise insaan bhi hota hai kya jinhe rang achchi nahi lagti?” [You can believe whatever you want but that doesn't mean I have to stop finding happiness in what I love. And who are these people who don't love colors?] He asked, curiosity ringing in the last question.

“Jinke sar par hazaro ummeed hai unko rang aur khoobsurati dekhne mein ya unhe enjoy karne mein koi khushi nahi lagti.” [Those who shoulder thousands of responsibilities, they don't find happiness or enjoyment in colors.]

“Lekin un log jo jeete hai usse zindagi keh sakte ho kya?” [And you call that life?]

That made no sense. There are many people in this world who are blind, many people who were crushed underneath the unseen burden they carry on their shoulders. They all live, they all enjoy their lives even if it is slightly less colorful than others lives.

“Kyu nahi sakte, woh bhi zindagi hai, bas rang bara nahi hai.” [Why not? That is also life but not filled with colors.]

“They survive, they never live and people who live fall in love with colors. Say what's your favorite color?”

“Favorite color? See when I said that people who have thousands of responsibilities on their head I meant me and I don't have time for this nonsense.” I scoffed.

He turned around, a smirk hanging on his lips. “How can something that is so integral to our lives be nonsense Mr. Chauhan?”

“People like you who have no job or anything important to do make these colors nonsense and I have no further wish to argue senselessly about your timepass.” I walked away not bothering to see his expression.

Colors don't define my life, it never has and it never will. Growing up within the confines of royalty where everything is taught to you, they forget to teach you about yourself but I don't mourn myself or the what ifs and should have beens. Life goes on. And what loss will it be for one lonely boy who wanted to be a grown up desperately and now that he was, he just felt like a child playing dress up.

Here it is! Another chapter, a little late but better than nothing. Forgive my Hindi, I tried my hand at poetry through hindi and I don't know the outcome of it. You are free to throw eggs at me if you find it cheesy and cliched.