Pictures versus Words

Caution: Long read alert! But I did not have the heart to break it up. 

Home.

Peace

A hot shower.

A fluffy bed.

Sleep.

These comforting images run through Priya Sharma’s head as she steps lightly off the cab with a world weary sigh, even before the wheezing vehicle comes to a shuddering stop. An expert of the bone rattling rides, she hands over the exact change, a soft thanks on her lips. Hefting the heavy handbag and the camera bag onto each of her shoulders, she pushes open the creaky wooden gate and steps into the garden.

Unconsciously, a smile lights up her face as she walks down the pretty, cobbled –stone path which is lined with roses and lilies and milky-white shells, which often seem to lend the air a quiet whisper of the sea. All around her, dew-covered blossoms wave merrily, the lush trees whisper delightedly at her arrival, the roosting birds give out their final merry chirps for the day, all in the pleasant rosiness of twilight. Her garden was her pride and joy, and this was always her favorite part of the day. Walking down the path, drinking in the visual of the luscious colors, sniffing the wonderful heady scent of the numerous flora, mentally noting the worse-for-wear strawberry patch and walking up to the cozy looking cottage at the path. A perfect fairy tale house. Click. If only the words didn’t spoil it.

Priya opens the main door cautiously and dumps her bag and keys on the side table. Locking the door behind her, she squares up her shoulders, takes a deep breath and turns around.

“Honey? Where are you?”

After a slight pause, Arjun Sharma appears clutching a grubby coffee mug, like it was his anchor in a storm. Her eyes sweep up and down his newly gained gaunt frame, as always looking for cues about his state of mind. With a sinking heart, she takes in the now-familiar tense stance, disheveled clothes, the naked feet, the trembling fingers.

His eyes had been always the window to the peace and pandemonium inside him, and a swift glance confirms what she already knows. Unnaturally wide, frantic doubt clouding those chocolate browns, deep purple bags right under them.

Stifling a long-suffering sigh, she manages to mask her desolation with a layer of mirth and says, “There you are! How was your day?”

“I sat down.. I started typing…. But then my fingers were itching for a pen. Then I started writing with my favorite pen…  Used the paper with the dragonfly print… But the words came out in such a rush… I could not write them fast enough… Shut the door!!”

“The door is locked, Arjun. Isn’t that a good thing about the words?” She says, taking a couple of steps towards him.

“No!! They came out in a rush, like that old faucet in the garden… Phusshhh! We really need to get that fixed, Priya. The words… they just refused to take… My characters don’t listen to me! I forgot what I meant them to do!”

He stops, as if to digest his own words and the absurdity of them. “Shut the door!” he bellows, for good measure, maybe even to hide his lapses.

Painting on her big cheerful smile, which has now begun to hurt her heart, she bridges the gap with her wide strides and drops a kiss on his cheek. “It is shut, darling. Finish your coffee, I will just go take a quick shower and then we will work on dinner together, okay?”

Without waiting for his inevitable “Shut the door!”, she glides into the doorway of their nearby bedroom and stops in dismay.

The fat, very scruffy dictionary is perched right on top of their fluffy blue quilt, showing the signs of multiple incidents of frantic ruffling. Tiny torn pieces of paper are flying around, caught in the evening gust from the open windows. Full reams of paper with a faint outline of a dragonfly in the background, the kind he loved to use for writing, covered every flat surface of the room; most of them filled with words and repeated scratching.

All the paper around her, all those random letters, all those scrawled words, all the scratching suddenly seemed to suck the air out of the room and a small squeak escapes from her mouth. She runs into the adjoining bathroom and turns on the shower, needing a few moments of sparse spaces before dealing with the chaos outside. She rips off her clothes as if they were constricting her and as the hot water sluices over her, her mind wanders to thoughts that she will never put into words.

…

Those goddamn words! She never could escape from them! They were everywhere in the house, on all the writable and non- writable surfaces, crowding out all her beloved possessions, seemingly making the air heavy with their intonations, Arjun’s stress about them destroying the quiet comfort of their cozy home. Priya had been brought up by her artist parents, whose bohemian lifestyle extended to their small apartment which was chock full of all forms of the visual form. She was taught pottery before writing, sculpture before riding a bike, sketching before swimming. However, eschewing her parents’ love for the traditional means of paintings, she fell in love with photography. The first time she touched a camera, the first picture she had clicked, the first time she spent hours in the darkroom, trying to get a perfect print; it convinced about how it will never be replaced in her life.

Funnily enough, it was photography which made her paths cross with the famous Arjun Sharma, the oft hailed Indian-answer-to-Dan-Brown-only-better author. Back then, she used to nurse dreams of becoming a famous travel photographer. She wanted to take award-winning pictures of malnourished children offset against the backdrop of glitzy skyscrapers, she pictured the perfect capture of the azure blue beaches of a Pacific island, and she dreamed of freezing in time the guileless laugh of an African tribeswoman. However, to make ends meet, she had to accept all kinds of gigs and one of them was to take the author photograph of Arjun for his fourth expected-to-be-a-blockbuster novel.

Priya was busy fiddling with her collection of lenses when he had arrived and immediately, everyone on set had gone into a tizzy. She had watched dispassionately as they all tittered around him and made him up as per the brief. He had a calm and down- to- earth vibe around him, smiling and talking to everyone politely and brushing off the simpering editor who was clearly fawning over her biggest client.

She introduced herself and suggested a couple of poses which he could use, before she went back to setting up the shot. He was fine until the cameras and the lights turned on and then, he had turned as stiff as a statue. Any sort of emotive response failed to show up on his stone face and his wide eyes were more apt for a deer caught in a truck’s headlights, rather than an author shoot in an air-conditioned studio. Priya had grown more and more frustrated as all her easing up lines fell flat on him and after an unfruitful hour, she had decided to take a break.

Priya walked away from the set to take a seat away from the crowds and went through her picture real, one by one. The only usable picture was a test shot she had taken before the stoniness had taken over Arjun, a picture where his face was turned away from the camera and he was laughing at someone out of the frame. She looks at the crinkled brown eyes, the laughing face, the expertly fake wind-blown hair, the open and easy demeanor and her heart gives an unexpected flutter.

“Wow, this is a first. You got a good picture out of me!” A voice rang out behind her, making her jump. She turned around to see Arjun standing behind her with a small smile.

She cleared her throat and gave a small shrug. “I realize now just how tough a task that is! Why are you so camera-shy? I would have assumed you’re pretty used to being under the spotlight”

He laughs and sits down next to her on the sofa. “No, I just don’t understand how photos work. I would much rather read a description of a person and imagine them to my liking”

Priya looks at him in disbelief. “What! But a picture captures a moment in time! Why would you want to use your imagination when you can actually physically see it?”

On and on they went, trading defenses for their passions, forgetting the reason they were there. They finally heeded the exasperated calls of Arjun’s editor and got back to the shoot. This time around, Priya kept trading barbs with him in order to ease him out. This strategy seemed to work and she was able to capture a good shot which exuded intelligence and confidence.

She signaled at the editor that she got the shot and walked up to him, her hand held out.

“Just tell the next photographer who shoots you to keep arguing with you. Seems to do the job!” she says, smiling at him.

He had taken her hand and smiled back. “I think it’s more about the photographer, rather than the lines. Would you like to come out to dinner to discuss more about the evils of the written word?”

She was taken aback at this blunt approach and it had taken her a couple of seconds of wide-eyed-surprise to regain her voice. “Uh… Sure, I guess…”

That dinner had led onto to many more, often bleeding into the early hours of the morning. They exchanged pleasantries, numbers, insults, barbs, and slowly much more. Hesitant touches, long hugs, stolen kisses.

…

The hot water begins to trickle, pulling Priya out of her reverie of thoughts. She shuts off the taps and steps outside, and gets dressed. She walks out and catches sight of Arjun huddled in front of his old typewriter, the one he uses when he was suddenly struck by a brilliant idea, the brilliant kind which he often says gets lost away in the cold, cruel technology of laptop keyboards. Knowing better than to interrupt him, Priya heads to the kitchen and starts making a quick dinner for them.

Once the food is laid out, she manages to convince Arjun to come join her at the table and they start eating.

“So, how many pages did you write today?”

“I started off as soon as you left for office…. I wrote 10 in a hurry.. But I had to go back and cut out almost all of it.” He looks up at her, the corners of his mouth tugged down by the invisible effects of stress and artistic depression and something which seemed much darker. “My characters refuse to listen to me, Priya! The heroine is by far….”

“By far, what?” she asks, anxiously. Throughout the writing process of this novel, he was agitated and happy and nervous and stressed and exhilarated and angry. But never had she seen him this dejected and it struck a heavy chord of foreboding in her.

However, he retreats back into his own world, full of his characters and words and demons, muttering to himself about random dialogues which sounded vaguely hostile and all her attempts at drawing him out fell flat on him.

Sighing, she gives up after a few minutes and eats her food silently. Her mind starts drifting again, and she cannot help but reflect on a dinner, a little more than a year ago, when everything changed unexpectedly.

…

“So which country did you dream of capturing today?” Arjun said, as he passed Priya the bowl of rice.

“Estonia. Did you know it is made up of exactly 2,222 islands and islets? I was Googling all about the country while I was waiting for the pesky models to get ready. One of them fainted from hunger in the middle of the shoot, so that gave me an additional hour of dreaming!”

“Wow! That’s a nice sounding number…”

“Exactly. Wait until I show you some pictures of the beaches. You’ll be begging me to go there.” she had said as she reached to grab her phone from the side table.

“I don’t need them. Let me guess. The water is the rich blue on which only sapphires lay claim on. The sand is so soft that you won’t complain about finding it everywhere for the next month. I believe fluffy is the right word for it! There are dozens of shells, in all the shades of pinks which you would not see outside of a sunset. And oh, the sunrises! Speaking of which, there has to be a lighthouse on the beach…”

“Stop! You’re ruining it with all the words.  And for your information, there is no lighthouse in this picture. So Mr. Writer, you are completely and absolutely wrong about that.”

Arjun laughs. “Hey, guess what? I’m going to be writing a new book!”

“Really? I’ll finally get a chance to see the famous Arjun Sharma at work. So is it going to be a famous religious cult on one of Estonia’s 2,222 islands which is responsible for multiple child abductions?”

He laughs and shakes his head. “No, I think I’m going to be doing something different this time. I don’t want to ruin it for you, so don’t ask me more!”

…

The loud clang of the spoon against the ceramic plate breaks her out of her memories and she looks up to see that Arjun was walking frantically back into his study.

“I got it!” is his last yell and seconds later, the door shuts and she sighs. She gets up and starts clearing up the table, once again alone with her thoughts.

After that fateful dinner a year ago, things had slowly but steadily gone downhill. The next day itself, he had gone out and brought back cartons stuffed with that dragonfly paper which she once found extremely pretty, dozens of pens whose nibs are not exactly sharp and not completely blunt. boxes of his preferred brand of coffee and had shut himself up in his office. First, it was just a few hours every day but within a couple of months, it was only a couple of hours for which he would emerge from the room.

The charming, laughing Arjun that she had married disappeared and in his place was a completely new person, someone who was frantically trying to make sense of the fictional world of his own creation. Gone was the man who woke her up every day with a new description of some far-flung corner of the world. In his place was a person who barely slept any more, his nights now occupied by agitated pacing and even more frantic scribbling and typing. Gone was the person who greeted her everyday as she trudged home from work, him smelling of warm earth and floral scents, from a day spent puttering about their beloved garden. In his place was a person who smelt of grunt and ink, from a day spent in a world she never really understood. Gone was the man who had a special smile for everything, from the sunrises to the coffee, from the roses to the birds, from the neighbourhood puppies to her. In his place was a person who forgot what it meant to be happy and joyous, as he struggled to remain afloat from the words which always drew him underwater.

Once she was done with the dishes, she glances at the shut study door, which has increasingly come to mean everything wrong with her life and shrugs philosophically. She tries to watch some television alone in the living room, but her mind refuses to focus on the intense murder mystery playing.

She keeps flashing onto Arjun’s expression during dinner, the desolate one which she has never seen. Her mind races with many thoughts, each of them trying to pinpoint something which, for some reason, seems to elude her.

Why did it give her this sense of dark fear of something unknown?

Why does she have this deep foreboding?

Why does she have to be negative about his writing?

Why does he have to be secretive about this damn book?

Why did whatever the book was about, make him so sad?

Why does he continue to write something which gives him so much grief?

Why do the bloody words have to spoil it all?

Why.. Why… Why..

…

She dreams of the evening that he proposed, just a little shy of two years ago. They had gone out to watch a movie and had decided to walk to a restaurant which was a couple of streets away. Hand in hand, they had crossed one half of the road, lost in their argument about the appropriateness of the ending of the movie. They had stopped on the divider, waiting for the traffic to ease up before crossing the other half of the road.

In the middle of the conversation, Priya happened to glance at the yellow traffic light just ahead of her and was immediately struck by the scene. The evening light had hit it from behind, highlighting its soberness and stability perfectly against the backdrop of the ongoing chaos of rushing vehicles.

“Hold on, I need to click this. I’m sure I can think of some caption of solidity against the madding crowd and sound as wordy as you!” she had said laughingly, as she whipped out her camera and started clicking a multitude of pictures.

“All done!” she had sung out happily and turned to face him, to find him down on his knees, looking up at her rather sheepishly.

“I did not plan this.. But what you just said? About solidity in the face of chaos? I felt that the moment I saw you, in that green dress which reminded me of the ever-changing prism of a pigeon’s neck. Since then, in all the madness of my life, I have always returned to find solace and comfort in you. And now, I want that for the rest of my life. So Ms. Priya Anand, will you do the honour of marrying me?”

…

The loud clanging of her iPhone ringtone, woke her up, before she could relieve that joyous, happy, heady moment. She sits up groggily and picks up her phone. The clock on its face tells her that she had conked off for at least three hours. With a big yawn, she answers the unknown number flashing on her screen.

“Hello?”

“Is this Priya Sharma? The wife of Arjun Sharma?”

“Yes, this is she…. Who is this?”

“You need to come to the hospital. There has been an accident.”

…

White walls.

White beds.

Blinking machines.

An unconscious writer.

A bereaved wife, sitting on the lone chair next to the bed. Click.

Priya rests her head on his unmoving, cold hand, her heart and eyes wrung out of tears and pain. A million different thoughts race in her mind, as she waits for the police officers to come brief her. I should have gotten him to say what was bothering him. I should not have dozed off. I should have taken care of him. Oh God, please don’t let anything happen to him. I cannot…

“Mrs. Sharma? Good evening, I’m Inspector Singh. I’m sorry I had to bring you down here.”

“That’s okay. Please… Is he going to be fine?” she asks, her voice trembling, as she fought to keep the newly sprung tears at bay.

“Yes, the doctors expect him to make a full recovery. But he is pretty banged up, so that means a lot of bed rest and therapy sessions.”

He is okay! Oh, the words are not going anywhere, thank God!

“Thank you… But what happened to him?”

“He was found at the traffic signal on Mount Road, after a SUV crashed into him. The CCTV footage confirms that he seems to have stepped out from the divider in a daze, right in front of the car. But surprisingly, he does not have any alcohol in the system.”

“He barely ever drinks. Cuts off the storyline, he says. But the signal? I don’t understand… Why at this time of the night?” she asks the officer, her confusion writ large on her face.

“I don’t know, but right before he walked onto the road, he seemed to be writing something. Here, I brought them along with his other personal effects for you.” he says, and hands her a big plastic folder along with his clothing. He bids her goodbye and good luck and walks out of the room.

Thanking him, Priya opens the folder and takes out the first paper. It was a mock-up of what seemed to be the title page of his novel.

Pictures Versus Words, by Arjun Sharma. 

Wonderingly, and with trembling fingers, she turns to the next loose page. It had just a couple of sentences.

Dedicated to my guardian angel Priya. I hope this book is a worthy tribute to you and the life you have woven with me. 

The tears now freely flowing through her eyes, she turns to the final page in the folder and reads through the happiest moment of her life, forever more indelibly printed on paper now.

“So, do you finally accept the victory of words over pictures?” comes a frail voice from the bed.