La Hasil (Hollow Pursuits)

Chapter 1

In the dark the ground felt cold under her feet. Gingerly she inched forward, putting one foot forward at a time. She found the first step. Carefully she put her foot on the step. It did not give way. The darkness around her was complete; she could not see a thing. Cautiously she sought the second step. This too was firm. A gust of cool air touched her body and she lifted her head. The claustrophobia she had felt a while ago, lessened. She put her foot on the third step and peered into the darkness.

∞∞∞∞∞

He opened the lounge door and stepped in. Shakir Baba, who had heard the car come up the driveway, came hurrying out of the kitchen.

'How are you, Shakir Baba,' he greeted him, courteous as ever. 'I am well, young master. And you?'

'I am well too,' he replied putting the keys on the center table and seating himself on the sofa.

'Would you like some tea?' Shakir Baba asked.
'Yes. That would be nice. Is father home?'

'No, he left a little while ago, taking the driver with him'.

'That's too bad, I came to see him. Any idea when he will return?'

'I have no idea, but perhaps Begum Sahiba will know,' Shakir Baba replied. 'Is Mummy home?'

'Yes, she is in her room. Should I tell her you are here?'

'Please do.'

Zalaid picked up a magazine from the center table and began to skim through it. Finding nothing of interest he flung it back on the table and casually looked around the room. His eyes fell on a painting on the far wall. Intrigued he walked up to have a closer look.

A fair hand, from the elbow to the tip of the middle finger, was painted against a black background. The five fingers, long and tapering, were spread out and from each finger long thin branches extended in every direction creating the impression of a tree against the dark backdrop. The branches emanating from the hand were bare of all foliage creating a forlorn image. The hand from the wrist to the elbow too was stark and withered giving the impression of dried bark, the protruding veins reinforcing the impression of a gnarled trunk. On the wrist was clamped a beautiful watch with a black dial and a black strap. The watch had no hands to tell the time; instead tiny diamonds sparkled on its face. The lines of fate, life, head and heart etched on the palm stood out in sharp relief against the hand; on each of the lines small spots of blood, so tiny as to be mere dots, sparkled.

Glancing down, he noticed the painting had been captioned Desire. Even more intrigued, he continued to study it. Moving back a couple of steps he looked at it from this perspective. The image was undoubtedly that of a tree; it was difficult to see it as anything other than that. It was only on closer examination that one realized that a hand had been painted in the likeness of a tree.

Another glance at the bottom of the painting told him that the artist was UM ME. This gave no clue as to whether the artist was a man or a woman. But whoever it was there could be no doubt that this was a painter of an extraordinary caliber. Zalaid was an artist himself and also an art critic. There was no fault he could find with this work. The lines were just right, the brushstrokes supreme, and the colors molded to perfection.

Desire...he pondered over the title. This painting which was new to the room seemed to dominate all the others in the lounge.

'This painting was not here before,' he observed as Shakir Baba entered the room with tea for him.
'Yes. Begum Sahiba got it a few days ago.' Shakir Baba left the room just as Nuzhat entered.

'You have come after a very long time, Zalaid,' Nuzhat said going up to him and patting his cheek.

'Asalam alaikum, Mummy. How are you? Yes, I have been very busy... Mummy, where did you get this painting from?'