A Girly Love Story

She was my heartthrob. We were in same class. I was fifteen. Mitul was few months older than me. We were students in a girl’s school and there were forty more girls or fifty in the class. But Mitul was special. None else had such a pair of eyes like hers.

Mitul looked like Radha in Rajasthan miniatures - with her large pair of eyes and body that can be found only in the miniatures or on the temple-walls – the intriguing curves and pliability of whom make the viewer awe-struck.  Mitul fascinated me. I used to sit beside her for hours – used to spend hours looking at her, busy with the canvas standing before the easel.  Once in a while she turned to me and asked if she liked her strokes on the canvas. To me, the sky she painted used to look more mesmerizing than the real one.

Mitul taught me the difference between miniature and mural – basics of watching an object d’art. She was a student of Academy of Fine Arts at that time - preparing for entrance test of government Art College.  I was from an orthodox family – was not allowed to go anywhere but school, and Mitul’s place. We liked each other’s company for sure – there couldn’t be any other reason of her frequently inviting me home. Mitul’s room – a ten by twelve space having one single bed, cartons of papers of different colours and sizes and quality, boxes full of pencils and brushes, and a stack of canvas made heaven for them. I used to stretch myself on the bed sometimes with a book – but mostly watching her work as she went on caressing her paper or canvas with gentle strokes of her pencil, sometimes with brush. And in the end of the long summer afternoon, tired she used to lie beside me. We used to start chatting.

“You know Moly, I am planning to move to Paris someday,”

I answered, “Hmmm – and you will paint French sky instead of Indian then.”

“You are silly – an artist should always move to France.” And she continued talking about Picasso and Braque – she did not like men at all, but one painter cannot really avoid talking about male painters.

One day I was standing at her window. No, there was no beautiful garden outside. The window was open towards a five feet wide lane, on the other side of which stood the high wall of another tall building. There apartment was a cheap ground floor one in a posh south Calcutta locality. I loved to stand by the window, watch the high wall of the adjacent building and the narrow strip of sky visible above that. I turned back as she entered the room.  She screamed, “Nooo, don’t move, I want to see you beside the window. I had to freeze for almost half an hour till she completed a rough sketch of mine. I found the face of the portrait different. “You can’t draw my face, Mitul!” – I taunted. She sounded indifferent, “No you don’t have a face. You only have a body and a posture that I need. I need your curves beside the window.” “What a caring painter!” – I replied and jumped into the bed, not extending the discussion further – freezing at same posture for so long was no easy task for me!

I remember another day with her. I was scrutinizing her notebook. She was busy cleaning her paintbrushes. She told, “Before I move to France, I will do a nude of yours.” I was puzzled – my body never resembled to any beautiful lady painted by any of our acclaimed painters! Scared, I somehow expressed my concern, “You mean! Well! But one needs a perfect body to be painted right?” She burst into laughter, “Do you know what kind of models we poor students have to work with? Who would come to expose themselves before one hundred students from different social classes for two hundred rupees per hour?  And we are not providing them any safety. You know– we have only old and poor. Now you imagine – I helped you with information.” She winked. I understood her trouble. I was waiting for her next sentence. She finished, “You have a proportionate body – I like that.” 

- “hahaha – you are mad! Dad told I am ugliest woman he had ever found.” - My voice chocked as I remembered dad’s derogatory words about me that morning as he had explained his reason of not buying me a white frock I wanted.

“Dad’s are dumb. All men are – even my dad is no different. He shouts even louder than your’s. A spoiled brat!”

True her dad used to yell a lot. I didn’t want a yelling dad either! I gave a nod supporting her. Her mom was nice – like mine. They cook yummy lunch for us. Both of us agreed to the point that men are simply unnecessary creation of God, probably created only to irritate us.

“But you are not ugly – only a little short - another two inches would make you perfect, but doesn’t matter. You have a nice body and I want an image of that with me.” – She winked again.

I remained silent. She touched my lips – I was enjoying the budding painter’s soft fingers moving on my lips.

Examination approached – we couldn’t manage time to meet after that. Both our moms maintained that they would prepare a grand lunch again for us after exam. Anyway no aspiring artist could move to France before passing tenth standard exam, as per our knowledge. We still had time.

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Few years passed. Within days after my exam, my dad was transferred to another district. Our shifting far from Calcutta blocked the chance of meeting her. We used to write letters to each other but the communication faded soon. I went on studying as I found a literary treasure trove in language studies while she was unsuccessfully trying to enter Art College. The daughter of the government clerk couldn’t move to France. She had to opt for a university famous not for its excellence in producing artists but for its student politics. We were not connected any longer. 

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Completing my post-graduation few months back, I’ve started teaching in one of the reputed language institutes run by one of my father’s friends. Who doesn’t enjoy explaining nuances of a foreign language before groups of techies who have to pick up a little foreign language skill after office in order to meet their professional demand? I come home late these days making my orthodox mom little annoyed; anyway none is going to stop me as long as I am enjoying my job.

Yesterday – it was late evening; I bumped Mitul on my way home. We cried loud seeing each other, ran towards each other and hugged making all other pedestrians aware of a happy reunion.  Within moments, I started showering her with queries, “How are you? What are you doing these days? Hope you are still painting skies? Hope you didn’t forget about painting French sky someday?” But did my overflowing curiosity made her uneasy? She looked at me - her glance made me shiver this time. It was not appreciating, but devouring me now. She sounded chewing her words, looking straight at my face, “I am fine – giving lessons on painting these days. How are you? Your boss wants you to work till late night? Let’s go for a coffee.” I didn’t get her properly, but was feeling uneasy. Her eyes were burning. Under the street light, she was looking like a witch straight from a fairy tale. I was scared, even though trying to scold myself for being too much in the world of fairy tales and fiction. I should stop reading fictions from now onwards, I thought. Still, I knew I can’t seat with this lady even for five minutes for a coffee! So I denied, “Some other day, Mitul. You know mom – she will get angry.” Mitul smiled with corner of her lips. She looked completely unknown. We exchanged phone numbers before I boarded the bus.

Today, as soon as I entered office in the morning – Manida called. Manida was my dad’s friend, my boss at office. As I entered his cabin, he roared –“You are grown up lady! Stop talking to everyone you meet on the road.” I was trying to understand what exactly he was talking about. But he didn’t give me any chance, “Tomorrow onwards, you will leave office with me if you have to leave late; or tale Pappu to arrange cab for you. Don’t go by bus.”  I nodded as he finished. I knew I didn’t have chance to ask anything else as he already turned to his files.

Minutes back, I returned my desk – I have to prepare the days lessons those I need to present in the afternoon.  Concentrating was bit difficult as I was pondering Manida’s words – what could be reason he wants to snatch my right to walk on Calcutta road. He knows I love walking!

I didn’t need to wait long – Pappu, the office boy arrived with tea, as usual with a big grin hanging on his face. “Madam – I was watching you yesterday when you were going home.” Pappu took up duty of keeping an eye on me from our second floor office till I board bus, I know that. Offices need to take care of women employee’s safety after all. There’s nothing new. But what he tells next terrifies me. “I saw you talking to a lady yesterday – she is a local leader of Jansevak party. Be careful madam!”

I am feeling a chill in my spine again. Jansevak party’s connection to some notorious extortion racket and their mode of operation is widely known. Moreover I know they are trying to extort money from our institute too. Some of the party goons came to office to threat Manida few days back. Now I guess the meaning of the words she told last evening. Today I am more than happy that I avoided going for coffee with my once good friend.