Conversations with the frame
Written by: Subbu Ananth
“Help me. Do something about this”.
The appeal seemed both earnest and desperate, an almost magical tone that stirred Das out of his stillness. It wasn’t close to anything real he’d heard in a long time. Looking up, his eyes widened to take another look. Did somebody just talk to him?
Das was a painter. He painted a variety of subjects and for days on end, almost killing himself to achieve photo quality perfection. A shaggy, bearded old man, Das was one guy you wouldn’t want to be next to in a crowd. His appearance lent him an air of eccentricity, a mangled mane of facial hair adding to a perception of worldly weariness. There were weeks that he spent meditating over as little as a shadow sometimes, engaging in what seemed to most like a mindless chatter. Das was unusual. He never started out with a concept. To him, a concept became visible only after the delivery. Life only had meaning, if viewed in retrospect. With deep reflection thus, he often engaged in one-way conversations with his subjects.
And so, it struck him with surprise to hear Misaki stir up a chat! Misaki was the subject of a charming couple in a rose garden, his outcome after many weeks of impatient imaginative strokes. She looked so beautiful; he couldn’t get his eyes off her. Her lovely eyes were saying something that looked at once in love and in pain. It didn’t matter that she was in another man’s arms; his senses wanted to reach out and appreciate her beauty. He could hear her through every cell of his brooding personality. Only, that she wouldn’t hear him. As much as he tried, he failed – Misaki couldn’t fathom anything. One-way conversation it was as always, but this time in reverse.
“They are closing in on us. Takahiro can’t see this beautiful world and they won’t let us live together”, she continued.
“He can’t see? And you are in love with him? Who’re they and why are they following you?” Das ranted, heartbeats pounding and sinking at the same time. Surrounded by the fragrance of lilies, roses and the trickle of the rivulet behind them, he was lost in her world.
“Maybe she loves him for his handsome looks”, he thought. “But blind, he is. Why is she so smitten? Could Takahiro be a prince in exile?” The story cleared up in Das’ mind. He felt sorry for Misaki. This was the only time; his subjects have ever been in trouble.
Even as he rued his creation, he could hear the thunderous march of approaching hooves.
“Run”, he shouted. But no, Misaki couldn’t hear him. He had to do something to save her.
And he did, in the only way he knew. Picked up and hurled the nearest can of white paint onto the canvas erasing every pixel of Misaki and Takahiro together.
In his mind, he cleaned up the mess leaving them a plain canvas to redraw their journey, again!