Book Blurb:
Hi, I am Avinash, but this is not my story. This is the story of Avni, my sister. I know the smell of cement and bricks still pulls her to the incident seven years ago where she made a daring yet ruthless decision. I know she is drifting away. I know she has begun to find comfort in Vivaan. But I don’t know if I like it.
Hi, I am Avni, but this is not my story. This is the story of Vivaan, the stunning, vivacious painter. There is something sad about the paintings he has locked away from the world in his storeroom. But he never talks about it. But then there are a lot of things he doesn’t talks about, like how deeply he loves me.
And what about Dev and Kangana? Isn’t this their story too? It wouldn’t have been if only we did one single thing differently on that ill-fated night, the night that changed the course of our destiny. And hey, I am Vivaan.
And what about me? Why does nobody talk about me? Or talk to me? Because I am a little girl or because…Well, this is my story too. You will ask who I am? The answer lies somewhere in the pages of BEYOND SCARS.
EXCERPT:
Sometimes, when people touch our scars, they touch our soul.
Today was going to be a big day, though I didn’t know it at the time. It was my first art exhibition. Was I nervous? Maybe. It was difficult for me to accept that because for a very long time in my life, I have trained myself not to feel any emotion. But then I looked at my paintings and laughed at myself. What a liar I have been!
I watched the large colourful paintings hanging on the white wall, each one illuminated by the track lighting above it. The light background music added to the ambience of the event.
It was 6.00 pm but no one was here yet. Was I too hopeful? Before I could doubt myself again, I saw some people entering my studio-cum-art gallery. Arjun, my friend, welcomed them all. I had already mentioned that I didn’t want to be introduced as the artist, so I silently watched the people judging my art.
“Wow, this painting is nice,” a middle-aged woman said to her partner. “It’s perfect for our library.” She was referring to the painting of a pile of books. There weren’t many shades in the painting. I was glad she liked the painting but what she said next disappointed me. “It will match our peach walls.”
She wanted it only because it matched her walls? What about the message the art portrayed? Or maybe she failed to see it.
I walked to a group of teenagers watching the painting of a butterfly.
“It’s wonderful. I just loved the colour combination,” a girl said to the boy standing next to her.
He nodded thoughtfully. “Just look at the details,” he said, and a smile lit up my face. Maybe he could see beneath the colours. “The way every nuance melt into the other, the way each part of her wings is painted. I just love it.”
My smile faded. Though I loved what he noticed, it would’ve been great if he looked a little deeper, beyond the shades and the strokes.
I walked to an elderly couple who were watching the painting of a child running behind a bus.
“I want this one. Doesn’t he look like Ishu?” The elderly woman’s voice reflected longing.
“Yeah, quite similar," her husband replied. “Yesterday he was saying, ‘Grandpa when are you coming down to meet me’.”
I was really happy that they identified their grandson with my painting, but they missed something. I guess they didn’t look into the eyes of the kid, else they would not have made the comparison.
The more I eavesdropped on different conversations, the more disappointed I became. Passing through many paintings I reached the painting of a box of toys. I wondered if anyone could see beyond the bright shades and the scattered toys in the painting. A loud bang interrupted my thoughts. I turned back. A few feet away from me, a boy had fallen on the ground, his face flat on the floor. All eyes in the gallery turned to him.
“Get up, dude.” I offered him my hand and he looked up.
Oops. He…she was a girl.
“I am sorry,” I said, embarrassed.
A hint of red appeared on her cheeks. Not sure if it was because of me misunderstanding her as a boy or because of the dozen pair of eyes staring at her.
“It’s okay.” She took my hand and got up. Her hands were rough, unlike the hands of usual girls. A giggle caught our attention. A few feet away a little girl was trying to suppress her laughter by pressing her palm on her mouth, and her mother was instructing her to behave herself.
“It’s ok, the situation was funny. Let her laugh.” She forced a smile and walked away, ignoring the scrutiny of the eyes still on her.
Wow. This girl was embarrassed but she laughed it off. A rare quality. She had all my attention now. She was a perfect tomboy of medium height, wearing blue jeans, a blue denim jacket, and sports shoes. There was a bounce in her steps.
“Hey, blunder queen!” A boy came behind her, laughing, and slapped the back of her head playfully. They resembled each other, though the boy was a few inches taller.
“Shut up, Avinash,” the girl said, offended.
“Now that you’ve finally made a blunder, you must be feeling better,” the boy teased her.
“Hey Avni, are you all right?” Arjun walked up to her. It seemed he knew her.
“Yes, I am fine, Arjun.”
“It’s only now that she must be fine.” The boy teased her again.
“Come on, Avinash. Don’t tease her.” Arjun said politely.
“How can he stop teasing me?” she said and walked towards the painting of the butterfly.
The moment this girl called Avni had laughed off her embarrassment, she had gained my attention. Not sure why, but I wanted to know what she thought about my paintings. She looked intently at the butterfly as if she could see beyond the brush strokes and the colours. She traced her fingers over the vibrant hues of the wings of the butterfly and a smile enveloped her face. Nobody could touch the paintings, but maybe she didn’t know the rules. And somehow, I liked how her fingers admired the paintings and I didn’t feel the need to stop her. Her eyes moved down the painting and her fingers slowly danced over the fallen leaves. For a fraction of a second, her smile faded as she touched the broken flower hidden beneath the pile of dried leaves. Or did I imagine it? It could’ve been my imagination, I admit.
She slowly walked to the next painting. The painting of the books. She traced her fingers over the books and I knew she was studying the painting, not just watching it. Her finger traced down to the last book hidden in the pile. It lingered a little longer on the torn edge of the book, then traced to the few pages shattered on the floor, and my heart skipped a beat.
She suddenly looked towards me. The way I was staring at her was not normal. Thankfully, she wasn’t offended and gave me a warm smile.
“Soulful paintings, aren’t they?” she said.
Her words touched something deep within me. A lot of people say my paintings are beautiful, but for the first time someone said they were soulful.
“It depends how you look at it.”
“Yeah, you are right. You know what they say about paintings? That paintings are silent poems. And they also say that no two people read the same poem in the same way.”
“That was deep.” I took a step towards her. “So, what do you think about these paintings?”
“Something is common in all these paintings,” she said.
“What?”
“Something is broken.”
Her words did something crazy to my heart. I looked at her face closely. I am not sure if she was pretty, but something in her face was captivating. Maybe her eyes that were a deep dark brown. Eyes that could see beyond the outer layer. Before I could say anything, she further surprised me.
“And the thing that is broken is almost hidden.”
Impossible! How did she comprehend it? And did I say I loved her husky voice?
She moved to the next painting—that of the boy running behind the bus. I followed her as if in a trance.
She traced her finger over the face of the boy. “See? It’s not just a bus he has missed. The pain in his eyes says he is running behind something, something he is afraid to lose. And look at this small heart-shaped pendant he is wearing. It's broken and almost hidden under his T-shirt.”
She moved to the next painting and I followed her, almost scared. What if she missed what this piece was about?
“In the heap of these toys, look at this toy house hidden under the pile.” She pointed at that house. “It’s broken too.”
What I felt that moment was something I hadn’t felt in…I guess...forever. Sometimes you don’t want your art to be appreciated, you want it to be understood.
She stared at me directly for the first time and I realised that her eyes had hues of black amid the brown. Her skin was soft, unlike her hands. There wasn’t a trace of make-up on her face and I liked that.
“Hey, Avni. So, what did you find in these paintings?” The boy who resembled her hopped into our conversation.
“They are awesome.” She didn’t give out any details. Maybe, sharing her thoughts with a stranger was easier for her. Sometimes that is the case with me too. So, we had something in common. I wondered if someday we could become friends. But then, will she talk to me the way she just did with that boy?
“Have you decided if you want to purchase any of these?”
She glanced around. There was a painting towards the end. She walked towards it. It was a painting of a girl wearing a saree, looking in the mirror. The mirror that was broken at the edge didn’t reflect her; it reflected a different woman.
“Don’t be like her, Avni,” the boy said. And the way he said it, I am sure he wasn’t talking about the painting. The easy demeanour between them suddenly changed and the air became tense.
“Yeah, I guess I don’t want this,” she said dryly, her fingers tracing the painting—the girl standing in front of the mirror, the girl in the reflection, and the broken edge of the mirror.
Which part of the painting made her sad? Which part did she connect with?
Suddenly, I wanted to paint Avni for reasons unknown. I talked with Arjun and my other friends but from the corner of my eyes I kept watching her. Sometimes she caught me doing so, but she wasn’t offended. She simply gave me a friendly smile.
That night, after returning home, I just couldn’t shrug off her words…broken and hidden. I needed to wake up early the next morning but somehow, I just couldn’t sleep. I got up in the middle of the night. To get some sleep tonight, I needed to put my mind at rest.
I tried to recall her face. All the while she was at the gallery, I saw her from different angles but hardly ever from the front. I mixed a few colours and my hands started moving on the canvas of their own volition. I meekly followed my intuitions. I gave into the trance that was guiding me. And when I came out of my trance, my canvas had captured something new for the first time.
Nothing was broken.
Though a lot was hidden. One shade behind the other, all chaos. But a beautiful chaos. It was Avni. And I knew she had touched a part of me.
Indeed, when people touch our scars, they touch our soul.
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