A leaky faucet in the bathroom dripped away late into the night. The apartment lay in complete disarray and the pale amber light emancipating from the flickering bulb painted the surroundings with a look of melancholy. Newspapers and magazines that were once stacked neatly, now lay strewn across the floor in a reckless haphazard fashion. Half-eaten boxes of takeaway food crowded the kitchen sink – reminder of the fact that this apartment was still a shelter to someone living. Amidst this clutter, she sat by the window with her hazel eyes fixed on the wisp of smoke from her cigarette that rose steadily at first, then turned turbulent, before finally vanishing into oblivion.
After yet another long day at work, she felt overworked and underappreciated. A casual glance into the mirror or the wall made her feel unattractive and ugly. Repulsed, she looked out of the window into the darkness. She remembered the time when she used to play with color pencils and would color all over her bedroom walls. Her parents never reprimanded her for it, rather kept encouraging and nurturing her artistic talents. She always derived an inexplicable sense of happiness, peace, and worthiness from filling up a blank sheet of paper with her creative pencil strokes. Her pretty face would glow with the dazzle of hundreds of shooting stars when she would look at a well-finished page in her coloring book. Slowly and gradually people started noticing her talent and showered her with a lot of appreciation and encouragement. As time went by, color pencils gave way to crayons, crayons to water colors, water colors to oil paint, and finally the oil paint gave way to bulky leather-bound law books.
She had never wanted to become a lawyer. Typical of middle class upbringing, she was gently nudged into becoming a lawyer because her parents felt that art could not be depended upon to be a comfortable source of livelihood. She gave in to her parents’ wishes; however, all she ever wanted to be was a painter. She wanted to paint pictures of sunrises and gardens, pictures of mothers and babies, pictures of flowers and birds, pictures of smiles and happiness. But all that was in the past now. She couldn’t even remember the last time when she had held a paintbrush. She looked at the canvas at the other side of the room. It had a half finished painting of a crab coming out of a shell. She had started working on it five years ago but had to stop it when she started preparing for the bar exam. Soon after that she was offered a well-paying job with a respected law firm and then painting had become nothing more than a totem of her childhood long lost to the harsh realities of the world that she lived in.
The faucet seemed noisier than ever. In the silence of the night the drops of water falling on the porcelain sink sounded like hailstones on a tin roof. She made a mental note to call the plumber once again the next day as she lit up another cigarette. The irritating sound of dripping water had accounted for so many of her sleepless nights. She had even had the tap replaced a couple of times but the infernal thing would not stop leaking! She took a long puff of her Marlboro Ultra Lights and looked out of the window. It was beginning to rain; pitter patter of the raindrops muffling the annoying sound of the faucet a little bit.
All of a sudden she felt lost. Painting gave her a sense of belonging, a sense of achievement, and a sense of identity. Without that she felt like just another face in the crowd who show up every day at the train station to catch the 7:55 express to work. She had never wanted to run the rat race but right now that was all she was doing. Wake up at 6, go for the morning jog, catch the 7:55 express, go to court, meet clients, and take the evening train back home to an empty apartment only to pore over more files and documents till they sapped every bit of energy and life out of her thin and attractive body.
When she had stopped painting, she had promised herself that she would pick it up again after appearing for the bar exam. After the bar there were the job interviews, and after that there were court cases after cases, each more time consuming than the last. Caught in this vicious cycle, a part of her had accepted the fact that she might never paint again; while another part still nurtured hope than one day magically she would have some enough time to pursue her passion. And then in an instant it struck her! “I am never going to have time, I need to make time!”, she said out loud as she stubbed out her cigarette and walked across the room to look at her half-finished painting.
The morning sun spilled its glorious white light into her apartment. It had long stopped raining and the smell of wet earth wafted through the open windows gently intoxicating her. She took a step back from the canvas to examine her work. A beautiful bluish-black crab emerged triumphantly from a golden shell with tiny specks of sand sprinkled across its crustacean body. Overnight the canvas had come to life and was now the most colorful and vibrant thing visible in the cluttered apartment. She felt the familiar tingle of excitement in her body and a growing sensing of tranquility around her. Even though she had been up all night painting this fabulous picture, she felt more alive than she had in years.
She went into the bathroom to wash the paint off her hands and face. The water felt cool and crisp as it washed the oil colors off her skin. She soaped her face and then pat-dried it with a soft clean Turkish towel before looking into the mirror. After a long time she saw herself flashing her natural smile and not the well-rehearsed one that she flashed every morning at work. She felt beautiful, she felt happy, and she felt content. She turned off the tap and changed into her running clothes. Grabbing a bottle of water she left for her morning jog, leaving an empty and quiet apartment behind.
Quiet because the faucet didn’t drip any more.
No comments:
Post a Comment