Two Portraits

Her dream had a demon with a paintbrush. 

When she woke up at quarter past six in the evening, she was sweating. The lights of her room were switched off. She made her way to the switchboard, and ran her finger over the familiar switch. A flicker and a half later, the light had been switched on. 

She stretched. Her thin body felt unnecessarily heavy today, even though she had skipped lunch. And now, she felt hungry. She also realised her dream was not the only thing which had made her sweat – in a rush to rest after her online classes, she had forgotten to switch on the fan before tucking herself into bed. 

Picking up her towel from the balcony adjacent to her room, she entered the washroom to freshen up. A few minutes later, she hung the wet towel outside, and made her way downstairs. 

Living with a joint family meant she seldom had moments she could spend by herself whenever she went out of her room. Sometimes, even her room would be the location for discussing the gossip which her sister had come across. A bored aunt would resort to paying a visit to her room every now and then, especially now that she was in her final year of studies – a time when it was considered necessary to check-up on the otherwise forgotten students of the family. 

When she walked down the stairs, she could hear the television. Her father had returned from work, and sat with the other family members on the set of sofas arranged in the living room. He flicked through the news to have an update on what the cable presenters had to say about the pandemic. 

Most members of the family refrained from stepping out of the house even after the lockdown had been lifted. The effect of stagnation had made its way onto their expressions. In usual times, the family would be engaged in some activity or the other, and be quick to acknowledge her coming down the stairs. But now, no one shifted their gaze from the television. 

There remained half an hour before the commencement of the daily soap which the women of the household watched. She did not care much for the show herself, because dropping in to watch it once a week was an adequate measure to follow the plot. This also spoke of its quality. But today, she thought watching the news could do no harm. She grabbed a snack from the fridge, and sat down beside her sister. 

Once the news had meandered to politics – which did not interest her any more than her math textbook – she pulled out her phone from her pocket. She scrolled through the new posts which had come up, spammed her friends with the art she liked, and allowed herself a smirk after reading a pun which would deserve a worse reaction in public. Then, she checked her messages. 

As soon as she had started to do so, her sister peeked into her phone. For the past few days, her sister had been trying to convince her to find a boyfriend for herself – with more intensity than usual, of course. The attempts made at persuading her to find a partner was another way of trying to keep the both of them occupied, but each knew there would be no harm in her having at least one partner before she left for college. As her canvas – which had been painted over a million times – taught her, practice was necessary before one could be good at something. 

When the boy her sister had a particular liking for texted her back, she turned the phone away from her sibling. No one else in the living room noticed, but the speed of his reply meant the sisters shot each other a knowing look. 

“I had a weird dream,” she texted him. 

“The good kind?” 

“What’s a good weird dream?” 

“I don’t know. Maybe the kind when you wake up after dreaming, you realise you have a crush on someone?” 

“Wait what?” 

“Yeah, it happened to me once!” 

Both sides exchanged a set of emoticons which would have been an overraction if not for the comment made. She enquired - “Was it really ‘good’?” 

“Ummm, now that you ask...” 

“Who was the girl of your dreams, then?” The pun had been sent before she could reconsider it. The boy recognised it, but made no comment on the matter, which was seen as a favour. 

“Let’s just say the only place she would date me was my dreams too.” 

“Hehehehe.” 

“So, what was your dream about?” 

“It was too weird. I was staring at a blank canvas which I had painted over. Remember the one which I messed up by trying to add yellow to it?” 

“You haven’t painted anything on a canvas since.” 

“I don’t have any other.” 

“Excuses.” 

“Well anyways, all of a sudden, there is a knock on my balcony door, which is never shut anyways. I go and open it. And there I see a giant demon with two horns standing in front of me, blocking the sky because it’s so huge. But the funniest thing was, it had a brush in its hands. The kinda illegal ones.” 

“A demon being ethically questionable?  Oh my my, even your dreams are predictably depressing.” 

“Pch. So anyways, it seems as if the demon’s handing me the brushes, as if it wants me to paint. But before I could even think of what to do, I realised it was only a dream, and then I woke up.” 

“You haven’t painted for a long time by your standards.” 

“I have.” 

“Painted well, I mean.” 

“That I haven’t.” 

“Hate to be your demon in real life, but paint tonight. Even your dreams want you to. And as one of my crushes can attest, dreams show you what even your heart doesn’t know.” 

“Okay Shakespeare. Which reminds me, you haven’t written for a long time.” 

“I have.” 

“Written well, I mean.” 

“That I haven’t.” 

“So, will you write tonight?” 

“I will.” After a moment, he sent another text - “Draw my portrait if you’re out of ideas!” 

“As long as the sheet doesn’t throw up after realising how bad you look.” 

“Haha, very funny.” This sarcastic comment popped up in her notification, because she had put her phone back into her pocket, and was walking upstairs again after finishing her snacks. She did want to draw – making a portrait would help her practice painting faces. Even if her friend’s face ended up looking more miserable than it was in reality, he couldn’t complain. 

Once she sat down at her desk, she replied to his text - “What will you write about?” 

“I’ll write a story about you. A portrait with words, that is.” 

“I’ll be waiting for it then.” 

“Me too.” 

And then, the both of them smiled to themselves.