Stranger

"There comes a time in every life when the world gets quiet and the only thing left is your heart." 1

I was the only child of a rich couple living in Delhi. My mother died when I was two, from cancer. My father was never the same after that. I understood his frustration even as a child-he had everything you could ask God for-wealth, fame, power, friends, and a happy family. Yet, he couldn't save her life. His helplessness drove him mad, slowly, day by day. He turned into a hard shell, and it's always the hard shells that are easiest to break. 2

I was sent away to a boarding school, then flown to Harvard, and finally relegated to the leather chair of the family business' Managing Director. I never interacted with him after my mother's death.3

Unfortunately, I inherited his arrogance, his assumption that everything in the world was available to him. I thought I had everything too-wealth, fame, power, friends, and I would soon get a happy family-I was engaged to a business scion. I became prey to the same curse. 4

On the wedding day, my boyfriend developed cold feet after hearing that my company had lost its money in a stock market crash. I was diagnosed with severe depression, and advised by my psychologist to stay at home, and not venture outside. I disobeyed him. 5

I went to a mall, and after getting drunk in a restrobar, stumbled around, without knowing where I was headed. Before anyone could alert me, I fell down an escalator. I suffered multiple fractures. No one was willing to take me to the hospital. Finally, one man volunteered after seeing I was heavily bleeding. He paid for my treatment and then took me to his apartment. He also gave me some anti-depressants. I was barely conscious then, and did not pay much attention to what he was doing.6

You can imagine how it must have been for me to wake up in a stranger's house, especially a male. My first reaction was to slap him and ask him whether he had attempted to do anything to me. He refused and explained what had happened in the mall. I refuted his claim, and dragged him to the local police station. Over there the police explained that I really had fallen down an escalator, and he had saved my life. I was so embarrassed, I did not bother to thank him. I was more concerned about how the newspapers must have gotten wind of it.7

I decided to take a taxi, but had to go back to his flat after realizing that my purse was left behind. I could see he was clearly amused by my sober state when he opened the door, holding my purse. “I knew you would come back," he said smiling. I angrily took my purse and left, banging the door on his face. I did not even pause to look at him. According to me, my tryst with him was over.8

I slowly immersed myself in business, and rebuilt my company from scratch. I also gained control over my depression. I forgot the stranger quickly. Then one day, I went to an art gallery. My friend claimed to have invited me to the opening of her show, but I had not received any such invitation. As I waited in the queue standing outside the owner's office, suddenly someone from behind said, "Hey it's you." I turned around to see the stranger.He smiled. "My name is Aryan."I frowned, and replied in a grim stone, 9

"My name is Kamakshi .Do I know you?"10

He chuckled. "You should be a better judge of that." His green eyes shined like emeralds in the bright lights of the gallery. I was strangely unnerved by them. "We met that day in the mall, remember?" he said. I grimaced remembering the situation.11

"Do you want your money back?" I asked.12

"I would like that," he said, grinning. I was a bit surprised. I thought he would be offended that I thought he had come to ask for his money back."But a coffee would be better," he cut in, before I could reply. "Would you like to come over to my house?"Once again I was going to decline, but it was as if I had already accepted I had to go to the place whether I wanted or not-fate, or kismat, whatever you would call it.13

After our meeting, we walked to his house. I couldn't believe I was letting a stranger taking me to his house. A number of scenarios were popping up in my mind, but my mind kept rationalizing. You know self-defense. He could be a really good friend, for all you know. Everything-my mind, heart, body and soul-was attracted to him. He was not particularly handsome-he had an angular face, and a stubble, and short hair. He was somewhat chubby. Yet, there was something angelic about him.14

We had a long chat at his house. I drank piping hot coffee, the best I'd had in ages, as we discussed anything and everything. He talked about what he did for a living-during the day, he worked as the cashier in a department store. His salary had been cut due to the recession. Painting was his hobby, but he was now thinking about selling his paintings. He knew it would be difficult-he was not friends with any one influential. At this point, instead of looking down upon him with distaste, I told him I could get him a show at the gallery-many shows, as a matter of fact-if he wanted.I thought he would accept, the way he said he would accept my money, but he declined. I knew pride was not the reason-there was no hurt in his eyes. I couldn't help but feel he was mocking me15

.I looked at his paintings. They were all superb-his genius was unparalleled. I had been to many art shows in my lifetime-in New York, in Milan, in Venice-you name it and I had gone there. I had bought paintings of Picasso and Da Vinci. But his was simply the best. I knew there was no way I could let those paintings go unnoticed.16

I decided to try a new method-I was a businesswoman after all-and offered to pay him money for art lessons. I thought he would decline, but he accepted. Strange fellow, I thought.The next day, I came to his house, for the first lesson. He gently guided me with my strokes. At one point, he even held my hand. There was nothing in his grip that suggested he enjoyed holding my hand, yet there was nothing that suggested he did not like it. He held it the way someone would hold a TV remote, or some object like that. Yet I was uncomfortable. I wanted him to enjoy it, to tighten his grip, feel my hands. This is pure craziness. You hardly know him, I thought to myself.17

But as the days went by, I found out a lot about him-not facts like his parents’ names, or when was he born. He chose not to reveal his biodata, and I respected that. Instead, he did express a lot about his personality-he couldn't see anyone crying, not even on the TV. He possessed a healthy amount of cynicism, and was well-read about everything. And as for me, I didn't have to reveal anything. Everyday, I found my personality under intense scrutiny from his eyes.18

I asked him to make a self-portrait of me once. I sat on a stool as patiently as I could. I involuntarily found myself trying to impress him-folding my shapely legs, trying to possess the dreamy look most models had, as if they were not with the artist, but in another world. When it was over, and I saw it, I was shocked. He had painted an old hag with broken teeth and greyish-you couldn't even call it hair-strands. "You never said whether to paint your outer beauty or your inner ugliness. I painted your inner ugliness," he explained.19

I would have given him a sarcastic retort had he been someone else, but his statement brought tears to my eyes. He did it fearlessly-he did not care that I could stop giving him money, or stop meeting him. I ran away from his flat, and he followed me. He finally caught up and seized my arms.20

"I'm sorry," he said.21

"You needn't be," I said, sniffling. "Whatever you said was perfectly true."22

He bit his lips, as if he wanted to say something, but he didn't, and let go of my arms, leaving me to run back home myself, lonely and miserable. When I came back the next day, I assumed an emotionless face, and pretended the day before had never happened.23

His show finally materialized-it was scheduled for two weeks after the self-portrait incident happened.24

"Don't forget me," I joked, “when you become famous."25

"Don't forget me," he whispered in a husky voice, and leant in, and I thought he really would kiss me, and the world would stop, and I would finally find love in a handsome stranger's-well not exactly, but you know what I mean-arms. Instead, as he had two weeks earlier, he let go of my arms, and said, "It's getting late, you need to go home."26

*27

The show went pretty well. My friends asked me, "Do you know who he is?"28

"Huh?" I said29

"The gallery owner doesn't know his name," they said.30

"What nonsense," I replied, and made my way to the owner's office. Stupid owner, I thought. Someone really needs to replace him.31

He looked up from the telephone on which he was chatting when he saw me. "Mr. Singh," I said, impatiently striding over to his desk, “you are the limit. How can you forget the name of the artist of this night's show?"32

"I really don't know. I received all those paintings in the mail. The artist didn't sign his name on any of them, and he didn't meet me personally either.""What do you mean?" I sputtered. "You don't know Aryan?""No," he said confused.33

The whole world was spinning around me. He has not come to the show too...I ran outside and searched the place frantically for him. My eyes were already moistened-once again; my subconscious knew what was going to happen. I asked people whether they'd seen a green-eyed man, but they replied in the negative.It was raining outside. I ran to his flat, and rang the doorbell several times. I asked the watchmen where the landlord lived, and they guided me to a flat on the first floor. When I rang the doorbell, it was opened by a portly looking man with a moustache.34

"Excuse me," I said panting, “But don't you have a tenant called Aryan? Who lives on the seventh floor?" I tried to recall his flat number. "Flat no 701?"35

He looked at me, his eyes strangely frozen, as if he was hypnotized. He said in a dreamy voice, "The tenant of Flat no 701....he was my son...he was estranged from me..."36

Aryan is the landlord's son? I thought shocked. But I did not pause for more than a second to register the fact.37

The landlord continued, oblivious to my questions. "...died in a car accident....never got to say goodbye..."38

I was shocked. I backed away, the words whirring in my head. Died in a car accident. Died in a car accident. Died in a car accident.39

*40

His face haunts me even now. He changed me-there is no doubt about that. This sounds cheesy, but he was my guardian angel, unexpectedly dropped from the heavens, for me.But then, why would he leave? Why didn't he stay with me forever, and guard me, like he was supposed to do? Perhaps he was in love with you too. And that scared him, I thought.41

I-I need to get him back. I know that there was no way I can be with him on Earth. I can only be with him in heaven.42

When they find my dead body the next day, they will nod their heads in sympathy and say to each other, “Poor girl. She was already so depressed. The depression got to her.”They will be wrong. I am the happiest person tonight-tonight I am going to be reunited with him. 43