Yes it was impeccable; every shade of it. I stood at the door giving a final scrutiny to my work, smiling at my own ingenuity and aptitude. It was an outcome of six hours sitting at the table that afternoon. Not every day I get to be proud of my own paintings, the hobby I hid from everyone all these years. The landscape with a flush of sanguine back ground appeared alive and magnificent. The water fall could almost be found sparkling with a splashing echo.
I picked up the paint brushes from the table and placed it in the bowl. The paint tubes were restored into the set of rectangular boxes. My mother asked me if I was ready to come down stairs to welcome uncle Samten and aunt Jambay. I yelled back I shall be there any moment and told her about the master piece of my own, joyously. It was to be a memento for my parents. I wanted it to be hung on the walls of the sitting room alongside the collections of my father.
I unhooked the guitar from the wall and began to strum on it, not considering if it was music or noise I produced was not good at it but I always liked the sound it produced. To me every sound from a musical instrument soothed my fatigued mind and sinews after an hours’ study or work.
Tonight my father wanted to celebrate my twentieth birthday, in twenty years, in a traditional way because I had refuted the cutting of cakes or blowing off of the candles the other day. It did not please me to emulate culture from beyond the borders. It was not only my birth day evening but also a farewell celebration before I left for Samtse to pursue my teacher training courses so far away from home for the first time.
In the altar room, seven monks have begun to read the scriptures of long life from a Buddhist canon. A feast was being prepared in the kitchen. The aroma of the foods filled the entire rooms. A few of our guests had arrived bringing with them a host of colourful gift boxes. I felt like a child. I however felt that I cannot refute their love and blessings that comes along with the gifts.
My mother called me again. I put the guitar on the hanger and left my room immediately to join the friends and relatives. I lingered around laughing, conversing and shaking hands.
About an hour later, I was engrossed in conversation with an old friend when father called me from the stairs. I negotiated my way through the milling crowd towards him. ‘Son,’ he said, ‘we have a surprise for you-come.’ I looked at him excitedly and followed him upstairs. Mother was waiting upstairs her face glowing with pride. When we reached my bedroom door he held me from my shoulder and said, ‘many, many happy returns of you days my son, Please go in..’ and he opened the door for me and left. I had no time to thank them even. I entered, anticipating a glazing gift box on my table. There was none. No boxes.
I peered into my gloomy room straining my eyes. And there she was on my bed, leaning against the bed post as if viewing the stars through the open window. I remained stunned at the door not believing the immensity of trouble my father had undergone to get me the least expected gift. I had thought that my parents were unaware about my passion for her. I was bewildered. I had last seen her somewhere or with someone but that was too vague to remember then. She sat there shy and silent as I walked towards her.
Her hair was nothing but a mane of silk threads scattered over her thin shoulders. I sat down near her and touched those silky hairs. ‘Is that a correct approach’ I asked to myself. She was reticent to my loving touch. Nevertheless I pulled one strand of her silky hair harder to gain her attention and lo! What a mellifluous voice she has, I concluded. If she spoke her words and sound would have dispelled all pain of romantic sorrow. But alas! She did not utter a word. Nor could she. Yet, she was an icon of her creator apt to saying what beauty means to a beholder.
The curves of her body had no room for imperfection, nor did she emanate any shade of somberness. I bent and kissed her gently on the brow, afraid if she should disintegrate into pieces. She did not recoil in any for of embarrassment. She was ice cold! Perhaps it was the breath of winter intruding from the open window; I assumed feeling pity for her.
That night after a king’s banquet and words of au re voir I returned to my room to give her company. I sat on the bed and played with her, my parents gift; a traditional musical instrument-dranyen, till I fell asleep exhausted to the bone.
Very good.
ReplyDelete