The Last Love Letter

Chapter 7

The first day of the exhibition went well. After a fortnight of back-breaking work, painting almost sixteen hours a day, Subah was finally able to finish her pieces on time.

She had called her mom a week before the scheduled opening. ‘It’s on, and I want you to come, Mom.’

‘Sorry, honey, we can’t come this month. But best of luck. We’re sure our darling daughter will do us proud and have a great exhibition.’

Subah knew why they wouldn’t come. The anniversary of her brother’s death was a week after the exhibition began.

Her father didn’t call to wish her luck, not that she’d expected him to. But she knew her mother would be thinking about her constantly, and that thought gave her strength. On the first day, she had a decent turnout of media for the opening because her invitation read like this:
The exhibition Alone to the Moon and Back will be launched by someone who is a symbol of grace and charm, someone we should admire and respect as much as we respect the best in the world of art. Be there to find out who she is and be prepared to fall in love with her.

The exhibition was opened by Bala, her maidservant-cum-studio assistant. Bala had been rescued from a prostitution racket when she was just fourteen. She had lost her ability to speak and think, and had spent many months recuperating in a mental hospital. When she had finally recovered, Subah had brought her home.

Bala sometimes wrote poetry, and Subah had painted one of her poems on a canvas that she called The Mirror on the Moon.
People murmured as the sari-clad Nepali woman with the expressionless face stepped forward and cut the ribbon. The clapping, which began with hesitation, soon became loud enough to last longer than usual, its echoes hanging in the air for several seconds after people had stopped clapping. Tears slid down Bala’s cheeks, but she stood motionless, her face without any expression.

The coverage in the newspapers the next day and the day after didn’t match the admiration and respect the people of the media had shown at the opening. Subah had expected that and smiled as she won the argument with herself over whether people cared for those without money and influence.

Two of her paintings sold on the first day, but the second was slow, as it was a Monday and not many people visited. The lack of newspaper articles further stopped information about the exhibit from getting to the masses. In short, even though she was happy to have achieved something that she believed in, her strategy was beginning to hurt the success of her exhibition.

On the third morning, she was surprised to see a man walk in with a little girl of around five. Not many people with children visited art exhibitions, so it was a welcome change. Subah loved children and rushed to greet the little girl.

‘Hello, little one, what’s your name?’

‘Hello, Subah.’

‘Wow! How did you know my name?’

‘It’s written outside. Simple.’
Subah tapped the back of her head in mild admonishment and smiled. ‘But what is yours?’

‘Sara.’

‘That’s a beautiful name.’

‘I know what your name means. It means “morning”, right?’

‘Yes, sweetheart.’ After straightening up, she turned her attention to the girl’s father. ‘Your daughter is very sweet.’

‘Thank you! My name is Akash.’

‘I didn’t ask your name.’

‘No.’ He hesitated and stammered, ‘No, you didn’t. I’m sorry.’

Subah turned back to the little girl, who brought a smile to her face. The girl had, by now, walked away from them towards one of the paintings, oblivious of the tension between her father and this woman.

‘Dad, come here. Look, there’s a snail.’

Akash headed in her direction, passing Subah and in the process accidently brushing her shoulder. She spun around. ‘Mister—’

‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to.’

Sara’s attention remained focused on the painting, and once again, she missed the tension.

Subah looked at the man in front of her closely. He seemed sincere in his apology. Dressed in jeans and a white linen shirt under a navy blue sweater, he seemed stressed. Was he scared of what she would do now or was he nursing some pain…or maybe ill health?

‘It’s okay,’ she finally said, without a smile. Subah caught up with Sara and said, ‘You know what? You’re right, it is indeed a snail. Only smart people like you can make that out. Can you tell me where this snail is? What is that round thing?’

‘Is it the moon?’

‘Bingo.’

Akash walked quietly over to them after a few dazed moments and stood there without a word. Why was this woman so rude to him but so sweet to his daughter? Maybe it was the pressure of handling so many uninterested buyers, who walked in all the time. She was undoubtedly beautiful, he’d noticed, and her big, round eyes were so intense that they could penetrate anything. This woman, despite her short temper, was sure of herself. That much was certain.

An assistant appeared at Subah’s side and whispered something in her ear.

It was the moment Akash was waiting for. He grabbed Sara’s arm. ‘Honey, we’ve got to go.’

‘Dad, wait. I want to see all the paintings.’

‘You’re just a kid, sweetheart, and this is not for you.’

‘No, you are a girl and you are not allowed. The themes here are anti-men, and you shouldn’t see that.’

Akash turned and saw Subah staring at him. What she said made no sense. This woman not only had an attitude but was totally insane. How could they allow such a neurotic person to hold an exhibition here?

‘Dad, I want to go now.’

The child had finally understood the tone of her voice and demonstrated which side she was on.

Akash grabbed his daughter’s wrist and escorted her out without any further conversation, his ears straining to hear any final comment the crazy woman might make behind their backs. When he reached the door, he turned to look back but couldn’t identify her in the sparse crowd. ‘Good riddance,’ he murmured.

Later, at The All American Diner, father and daughter ate a breakfast of eggs, toast, butter and marmalade, which Sara washed down with juice while Akash preferred coffee.

‘Dad, I like that painter woman. I want to become a painter too.’
‘Huh?’ Akash didn’t say anything else. They had finished eating and were now walking back to their car.

‘Dad?’

‘Yes, beta?’

‘I know you miss Mamma.’

He stopped, knelt down and smiled. ‘You’re right, honey.’

‘Me too.’ She hugged him with all her might.