Not every
story is a love story. And theirs was not either. Yet it was a story worth
writing about. At least I thought so.
Nisha and
Naveen have known each other for nearly two decades now. Sometimes they even
forget when and how it all started. But then some things just grow over time. Their
meetings grew from chance encounters to good to meet, to must meet, to a
necessity and over years a habit.
On that day
as well, Naveen sat in his studio, fidgeting with his brush. There was
something not right in the painting he had in front of him. But for some reason
his eyes were not spotting it. He kept shifting his gaze between the watch and
the painting. It was a beautiful portrait of a woman with her baby in her arms.
The motherly love on her face was as clearly visible as Naveen had wanted. Yet
something was missing.
He again
checked his watch. Nisha should have been here half an hour ago. He had told
her specifically to be there on time. He had to complete the painting. It just
couldn’t wait any longer. And he knew that he couldn’t do that without her
feedback. She was his biggest critic. She could add words to his colours. She
could add life to his paintings. She would describe them in a way even Naveen
wouldn’t have thought of. His colours and his imaginations needed her helping
hand to reach a form, a conclusion.
As for
Nisha, these paintings spoke to her in a language only she could understand.
She had always been fond of colours. But there was something special about
Naveen’s paintings. She seemed to draw some kind of inner strength from his
bright bold strokes. Whenever she felt low or disheartened, she would spend
some time in his studio. Even his unfinished art works made her feel complete
as an individual.
Naveen was
looking out of the window when Nisha opened the door of the studio. He heard
her footsteps but didn’t turn to see or greet her. Without uttering a word, she
walked towards the easel. For next couple of minutes both stood quietly at
their respective spots. And then she broke the silence. “You forgot the bindi. She
has become a mother, but she is a wife still.”
Naveen
rushed to towards his painting. He had his answers. Without a delay, he picked
up his brush and started working. Nisha moved towards the kitchenette counter
and started preparing tea for both. For next ten minutes both silently focused
on their respective tasks. As they sat down for tea, Nisha pulled out a small box
from her bag and pushed it towards Naveen.
As soon as
he opened the box, Naveen remembered that today was his wife’s birthday. In the
morning he had left home in a hurry, with the single point agenda of finishing
the painting. In his rush he even forgot to wish her. But how did Nisha know
all this? He didn’t need to ask.
He quietly closed
the box. Nisha never failed to remind him of important appointments, dates,
tasks and special occasions like these. He used to call her as his alarm clock.
There was a time when Nisha would call him up before every exam. She would
worry that he may not wake up in time and would miss his exam or his interview.
Naveen reciprocated
her concern for him with equal care and affection. He always stood behind her,
being her strong pillar of support. He could read her eyes like no one else. He
understood her thoughts even before she could speak. From professional to
personal, internal or external, he had held her hand during every turbulence
she faced.
Today was
no different. Before they could finish the tea, Nisha had poured out all her
troubles. Her pain had subsided. She would always hear him patiently and would
follow his advice to the last dot. She trusted him and he had never let her
down.
Dileep,
Nisha’s husband, had already put their kids to bed by then time Nisha entered
her home. “I am sorry. I lost track of time.” She looked at Dileep
apologetically.
“You can freshen
up while I heat up the food.” He smiled, “and then tell me all about Naveen’s latest
creation.” Dileep loved the way Nisha would narrate Naveen’s paintings, making
them sound poetic.
In another
corner of the city, Sheetal pretended to be angry as Naveen placed the box on
the dining table. He had not forgotten to pick up flowers for her on his way
back home. She smiled as she opened the box. The gift was just perfect,
beautiful as ever.
“Don’t
forget to thank Nisha on my behalf.” Sheetal teased Naveen lovingly as she went
inside to get ready for dinner. “You are an artist. But she has the eyes of a connoisseur.”
