Not a Love Story

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.”