The Stolen Strokes

As a child, I wandered from bookstore to bookstore in search of a fragment of my heart within their stories. On a weekend, I find myself again strolling past the books stacked in the corner, all marred by dust. A dull ache weighed heavily on every heartbeat - it was as if it reflected my life, echoing a forgotten rhythm of love. I reached my hand toward the stacks of books, running my fingers along it when a rush of students pressed me against the dust-laden spines. Something beneath me shifted with a low creaking sound before I could register, the floor shifted and I found myself falling into an abyss. A hollow groan escapes me before I hit the ground, hard.

I scrunch my eyes as the pain surges through my body. I pick myself up after a few minutes, glancing above at the sealed floor. Panicked, I try to look around and make sense of what just happened. An empty room with a lone table in the middle seemed undisturbed for years. As I shift my foot toward it, dust swirls like a remnant of sorrow. Walking closer, a book large enough to be mistaken for an art canvas board, resting on the table, tangled in cobwebs. Pushing aside the dust, I stumbled on such a magnificent cover - bursts of bright colors, painted strokes, flowing like scattered broken petals of rose. Something in me compels my hand to trace over it, as I do, a tear trickles down my cheek. Uneasiness rests deep within me, hollowness echoing with every thud of my pulse. 

With a little effort, I open the book. It’s a painting - flipping through pages yet all I find are paintings each so vividly painted it feels as if they might come alive under my touch. A bit confused, I glance at the state of the book, it seems to have been sitting here for more than a century. Each work of art can be a masterpiece for the world to admire. With a deep breath, I turn to the first painting - slowly trailing my fingers over it. The soft sweeps of light blue blending with golden hues, cheerful streaks of colors filling the town, rush of children across the street gripping books in hand. As my hand glides to the last, I feel the roughness of letters carved - leaning in, it reads ‘Knowledge’. 

As the word ‘ Knowledge’ rolls over my tongue - the book slowly starts vanishing like an ash in the air and the room in front of me is no longer or perhaps I'm dreaming a dream within a dream. I’m standing at an edge where children rush across the streets with bags and books. Town filled with chatter and the early morning whispers of a lively blessed town. Three young men were greeted by the people like some governor or something. Highly praised by the people - “Oh, dear three brothers take our praises for the blessing.” when some woman jumps in the middle - “ Thanks to you brothers, my child has happily gone to study.” and so on and on. 

Oh God, what am I doing here? Can they see me? I walk up to one of the vendors and try calling out to him. A man suddenly passes right through me - have I died? I was admiring a book of paintings, and now this...?

Before I can untangle the state of my being, a girl, no older than eight or ten, runs merrily toward a woman. Something in me twitches - an ache, deep and unshakable. The woman brushes the girl off sternly and walks away.

Curious, I followed the little girl. She enters her house and stands by the window, staring outside. I step closer, and as I follow her gaze, I see a woman playing in the yard with her two daughters. Tears stream down the girl’s cheeks. Mine do too - strange, but why does her mother reflect mine?

Days went by while I remain stuck in an unknown place and time. I sit here, gazing at the beautiful sky and the peacefulness of this town. I watch over the town in the stillness of the night, everyone receding back to their homes when my gaze lands upon the three brothers. I follow them in the darkness of the night as they enter a chamber. One of them places a book on the table remarkably large, almost the size of a canvas board…wait a canvas board? My breath hitches. Is it the book I saw earlier? I step closer, and my heart nearly pounds out of my chest. 

It is. 

But it’s not entirely filled with paintings. Did they paint these? Am I witnessing the past of the town? I watch them pull out the canvas page from the book, and begin to paint. Fields of green stretch endlessly, a gentle stroke of winds rippling through the fields while people stack up their grains, gleefully. Other side has a rush of bursting colors filling the town and people sharing meals with the needy. And with a wooden sharp stick, they carve down a word - ‘Abundance’. I watch, wide - eyed as they magically place the painting back in the book and leave it open on the top shelf.  

Morning sun slides up bright and beautiful. I stroll through the streets longing to live in a town filled with such warmth and love. Days pass, and I feel like an intruder - watching, unseen, as the town flourishes, where people live each day blissfully. On one such day, I watch the little girl hurry towards the center of the town where a large group of people are gathered. I watch all the scenes unfold - one of the brothers holds up the painting, ‘Abundance’, while people step forward, stretching their hands toward it as if awaiting for a miracle. The painting sheds its color though it loses nothing of its magnificent color touch.I follow one of the men as he carefully carries the color in his hands, scattering it throughout his house in measured steps. All those who received the blessing do the same, spreading it within their homes.

Confused, I wander around the town when I overhear a group of elderly women talking -“This season my fields are drying up,” one of them says, her hands moving along the lines of her fields-“But with the divine blessing, the crops are green as ever.”

Another woman nods, gripping a woven basket to her chest. “The three brothers helped us again. Like they always do.”

I stand there, stunned, as if I’ve stepped into a fantasy world. I inch closer, drawn in by their words. The women speak with respect, with gratitude. Every blessing, every miracle, stems from the pages of that book. My breath catches. And it is the only town to have survived the greatest famines of its time. 

Five years pass before my eyes, like pages of a book being flipped over and over again while my life remains stuck here. The little girl, now a teenager, sits lonely in the corner of her yard while her family and her neighbors bakes cakes together. I sit near her,  despite how badly I wanna hug her like I wanted to be consoled as a child. But all I could do was sit silently beside her in her sorrow while remnants of my own childhood take a seat beside me. Day passes, moonshine silvery all bright in its beauty, mirth of laughter recedes and the yard carries the traces of happiness hours ago. She walks up to her bed empty stomach, goes to sleep while her muffled sobs echoing in my ears. I spend my night resting by the window, watching over her from afar. 

Morning comes in as regular. I step inside the chamber near the divine book, searching for an angle or a way to return to my world. I reach out to grab the book, but each time, my hand goes right through it.

How badly do I want to run into a wall just for a moment of peace?

After a while, one of the brothers walks in, my spine goes straight, my eyes tracing his every step. He picks up the book and walks towards the center of the town.

Another miracle?

Which painting will it be this time?

I follow him, standing near a corner while people gather around the three brothers like bees around flowers. He then opens up the book, revealing a painting, and … no…no…it can’t be.

It’s the painting that hangs in my room, the one gifted to me by the elderly woman from my neighborhood. I was eight when we moved into our new house, and she had handed it to me, saying, "The painting was always yours to keep."

Strange.

The colors of the painting glow faintly, a soft golden blending with pinkish-silver tones. The light in its pigments, shiftling as though pulsating like a heartbeat, alive and cherished. A mother lifting her child, their laughter suspended in strokes of sunlight. A single red rose resting against the windowsill. A pair of birds in mid-flight. Two figures standing beneath a cascading willow tree. Three friends under flower-laden archways, while a gentle rain pours down in tune with slow-moving breeze. At the bottom of the painting, a single word is carved - ‘LOVE’.

This painting blesses the town with warmth and love. 

My eyes fall upon the little girl staring at the painting as though it holds the medicine to her aching heart. As people take its blessings and leave, she stands before it with an outstretched hand, gathering its color in her fragile hand. A tear rolls down my cheek hoping I could take it too. She sheds it throughout her house. That night, she sits on her bed, reading a fairytale. About an hour later, her mother knocks on the door for the first time since my stay here. She steps inside with a gentle smile and a plate of fruit.

 “Eat it while I bring your favourite vegetable soup from the market,” she says, ruffling  her hair with love before walking away. A wide, bright smile overtakes the girl’s face and a quiet sob escapes her lips.

I watch the weeks unfold, her life filled with the care and warmth of her mother. I roam out in the streets while a thought takes up space in my mind- how much time has passed in my world while I’ve been here?

I walk gleefully, nearly dancing toward the chamber when my steps take a sudden brake mid - way. 

Is that her?

I walk closer and find the little girl standing before the book, staring at the painting. A sense of unease settles within me. After a few moments, she reaches for the painting, struggling to lift its heavy frame. Fear draws in my heart as I realize what she intends to do.

"Stop!" I shout.

Dread creeps in. I wave desperately, trying to stop her, but she can’t see or hear me. I watch helplessly as she carries the painting home, spreading its colors throughout her house before hiding it in her closet. The moment she does, chaos erupts. The three brothers gather, and cries of people echoes through the town.

 "Whose greed has sealed the fate of this town?" one of them demands, his voice sharp with anger. "Our father warned us of greed - so what forced you to bring ruin upon yourself and us?"

Their eyes, along with the townspeople’s, turn toward the horizon. A dark plague creeps forward, swallowing everything in its path. The once-flourishing town crumbles, its blessings marred by downfall, its beauty reduced to rubble.  One of the brothers speaks again, his voice breaking yet carrying the weight of a curse.

"Let the one who has sinned be reborn and live with the misery that led them to greed. May the painting remain bound to them as a reminder of their deeds."

I fall to my knees, realization striking me like a thunderstorm.

And they all turn to stone, flood overtakes the town. And the little girl, now turned to stone, frozen on her knees crying at the feet of her mother’s statue. The happiness that once marked this place - flourishing, alive - loses it's all color.

A town once marked by blessings, flourished with happiness and warmth is now nothing more than a broken town with statues of people once carefree and alive.

I whisper as the town flies away like the remnants of a distant dream, “It did find me.”

Tears flow, unable to stop, guilt heavy on my heart until someone taps my shoulder.

I freeze. Then I turn.

A young student stands before me. "Sorry for the push," he says. "My friends can be careless."

I blink in shock. The bookstore. Bright, bustling, just as it was before.

I glance at the floor - I’m back in my world.

My head spins, my mind unable to process everything I’ve just been through. I turn to leave when a voice calls out.

"Young girl, you left this book behind."

I stop.

An elderly woman hands me a book.

The divine book of paintings.

I take it without question and head straight to my room.

There is so much to say, yet no words come. No thought is coherent enough for me to convey.