❝How little do you know about the person in front of your eyes?❞

1st April 2014

I capture death.

Sombre expressions, sanguine ambitions hidden under the layers of manifested sadness. My muse--the one whose death I was about to capture--Menka, she introduced herself as. A charming maiden of sand tone, onyx-eyes, middle-parted black hair flowing past her shoulder, two or three inches shorter than my 6'1 stature, pretty impressive for a South Asian woman. It was her first theme-based photoshoot, and ironically, the theme she was to represent happened to be death.

Indeed, death is the start of something new.

She was good at her job, I admitted. The way she took the attire and carried that last look, as if death was really looming over her head, and not something to be faked. The more the lenses focused on her while the artificial lights dimmed to complement her natural gloom, the more I became engrossed. Once, twice, thrice, the commands were thrown, and artists toed back to their circles behind the perimeter of the stage where Menka sat.

My ears tuned out the noises, I couldn't focus on anything but her. Taking my position, and tightening the strap of my camera, I took her into the frame. For anyone else, it was just a snap, a picture of a woman who posed for a theme. The next day, the picture of her would be out, Menka will get her raise, and praise. Maybe more contracts and fame. I'd get the same praises, my captured angles will similarly be fawned over, and my shoulder will be patted in adoration. The next day, everyone will move on to the new capture, the new picture.

Me? I'd again enter into my gallery and stand in between those captures, making a new story out of them all over again. I don't let any of these clicks die, ever.

For I see what they can't.

Elegance and charm of those mint-green satin frills that hugged Menka's body from neck to ankles, the fine see-through fabric that clung to her arms, green pearls clustered around her neck, matching the dangles of her earring, or the green, glittering eye make-up she wore. A true beauty, in every capture. But that was just it. Behind the posh material around her stomach, was a deep, glaring gash of frozen blood. The wound was visible, but only to the eyes that focused hard. As if a force strong enough to knock someone off their feet, attacked her stomach with a poisonous passion.

Or the handprints that decorated my muse's shoulder, peeking out from the collar of her dress, to mock and to challenge the eyes that resided in light, to acknowledge the darkness within her.

My eyes were mocked the most by the jarred, crisscrossed lines that covered the insides of her left wrist. As if she had taken a knife, a sharp edge and danced with it till the lines deepened, flirted with death a few times, probably purposely riling it until the extent was drawn and the life stood to be snuffed out.

Menka in my captures resembled death.

****

"Where to next, baba?" Blinking to push down the forming tears quite a few times, Deepti asked with a feigned curiosity, about mid-way through the dinner.

My throat constricted painfully upon registering the long yearning behind her hopeful eyes.

Having an age gap of about twelve years between us, I became more of a mentor, and father figure in her life, rather than the big brother I was supposed to be. Perhaps that's how we were raised. Losing Papa six months after Deepti's birth, and Maa mostly out making a living for us three, it was me whom Deepti sought as a prominent figure in her life.

The first time her little, red fist curled around my finger three months after her birth, she had never let go of me ever since. Every time any confusion or hardship strolled her way, she ran straight towards me and held my hand as if she believed I was the magician of her life, holding a magic potion to shadow her from all.

Maa jokingly said at times, "She is your daughter, accidentally born a few years earlier."

When I chose the profession of photography on a full-time basis to back my living, and travelling for captures became my constant companion, Deepti found it hardest to adjust to the changes. I was rarely home after that, rarely sat with her to talk about the bizarre workings of the cosmos and astronomy she so passionately babbled about, or share meals with her, which mostly ended up in food fights. Now, I was home only on occasion. Or sometimes when I was called to Kolkata for photoshoots, my hometown.

Now, after living here for a week, it was time to move again.

"Let him eat, beta. Talk after you've finished dinner." Maa's scolding voice made me discard the thoughts in my mind and focus on the food on my plate. I gratefully welcomed the change.

Not because I was trying to dodge Deepti's question, but because I needed more time to toughen my composure before I talked about my next adventure to maa. She was going to hate it, I just knew. Even I hated the sudden change in the plans. I had made it clear to the agencies, I wouldn't go there at any cost.

Especially when maa had already almost lost me once, now allowing me to go to the place that held the power to shatter me again, or worse kill me, I doubted she would ever even let me spell the name.

"Viraj?"

I re-focused, Maa & Deepti were looking at me with concerns swarming on their faces. They were standing around me, emptying their places from the dining table. Whatever confusion I had upon seeing them around me evaporated when I saw their empty plates, and the clock that reminded me, I was lost in my head for over ten minutes now. I dropped the spoon by my plate and averted my eyes from the food that I had left.

Guilt of wasting homemade food was prominent, but the dampened scenario wouldn't have let me eat further. I pushed the chair aside and stood, before slipping out of the dining room and entering the living area without a word.

Living area, a small room that Deepti called the study room, stashing one corner with a rack of books. Maa decorated another half of the room with red-pink papers and named it puja ghar. For me, the sofa that sat in the centre was living area, a small spot of relaxation.

That's how our home was, in this small, crowded locality of the northern part of the city of joy, Kolkata. Though, decent sized with two rooms, and one small kitchen area, added by a small porch outside--yet, too crowded and small for my eyes. No matter how many times I asked Maa to move out to a new place, now that I could indeed afford a better lifestyle for us three, she'd refuse every time, giving me the same response; "we aren't moving out, this place has so many memories of our family. Your father brought me here after marrying, only my corpse shall leave now."

Just Indian mother things!

I could hear them both going on about me back there in the dining area. My sister appeared to defend me, while my mother was on verge on withering around. Out of anger, sadness, fear, everything. On the echo of wet slippers against cold, clay ground of home, I braced myself.

"Āmi ēkhana jāni," she thundered the first thing upon nearing me.

"Maa-" I began.

"No, no, not a word!" Her voice was loud and stark clear with each word. She settled on the other end of the sofa, while Deepti went inside her room, probably already knowing where this conversation was headed to.

"You're going to Kashi."

Maa didn't question, she simply spoke. She didn't even need my confirmation. The way I had been acting for a week, so lost, so pained, and so close to the familiar insanity, it was just a matter of time for her to figure where I was venturing next. Her emphasis on Kashi wasn't lost on me either. She spoke the word as if it coiled with venom within her.

I sat silent. I didn't have anything to say, being conflicted myself.

"I'm scared, that place... her..." she began, but tumbled over the syllables.

She resigned. Accepted that it was inevitable.

I squeezed my eyes shut, my fist curling painfully, it hurt to even think about those things I so wishfully buried in the chapters of my past. Five, ten, fifteen... I slipped on counting the ticking of clock. Even Maa suppressed a few sobs and all I heard after overstretching silence of a few minutes was her getting up with a sigh, and the fading sounds of her anklet.

She knew it was a sensitive matter to me and any unnecessary mention might push me back to that darkness I had barely recovered from. Oh, whom was I lying to? Myself? I never recovered. My therapist named my current condition as 'unhealed trauma'. He wasn't wrong. I never healed from the events of five years back.

How could I? I didn't even want to let go.

At the end of the day, no matter who slept with a concern-filled mind, or who slept angry, at least my therapist was going to be happy about my next journey.

I could almost hear him exclaim, "it's finally time to stop running from your past, and face it upfront!"

He wouldn't ponder over whether I was going to survive or succumb to the darkness. He would simply let the results remain a thought for the time being.

Puja-ghar: A small room or a corner in house where worship or temple related activities are performed.

Translation:

Āmi ēkhana jāni: I know now.