The Last Love Letter

Chapter 14

Subah was satisfied. The ad agency idea had paid off. After the fourth day, when information on her exhibition began to reach her targeted audience, thanks to the attractive posts and banners shared online on social media by Johnnie Sparks’ company, people started to arrive. The attendance for the final four days was five times more than that of all the earlier days put together. In all, twenty works found good homes and after she had paid all her bills, including the '25,000 to the ad agency, she had made enough to survive for four months.

In Subah’s current circumstances, this was a welcome relief. She decided to dedicate half the money she had earned to the rehabilitation of the women who had recently registered with Help Forever. Her job was to find them employment that matched their skills. As for those who didn’t have sufficient skills to find employment, the NGO paid for their training in areas that interested them at various institutes across Delhi.

When she returned home at the end of the final day, she gave Bala a wide smile and said, ‘You are not unlucky, Bala. We’ve made enough to last us a few months.’

Bala gave her a weak smile. She helped Subah neatly stack her remaining works in the studio at the barsati. They then sat quietly next to each other, drinking coffee. Later, Subah ordered food from outside for a change to complete the celebration and ensure that her chief guest, Bala, had a well-deserved break from work. By the time they finished dinner, their moods had lifted and Subah noticed that Bala’s smile was the widest she remembered seeing recently.
Two days after the exhibition, Subah tried to reach Johnnie Sparks on the phone. When he didn’t answer in the morning, she tried later that day, but was unsuccessful once again.

Thinking that he was perhaps busy, she sent him a text that evening. But there was no reply to the text either. What sort of a man didn’t reply to a simple thank you message?

She was grateful for what Johnnie Sparks had done. It had salvaged her exhibition, and courtesy demanded that she show her gratitude. That was what she had been taught, and that was what she knew. But this man, just like every other man she’d met, didn’t care about what she intended or felt.
Her past interactions with Johnnie Sparks flashed through her mind. At first, he had tried to throw himself at her, and when that didn’t work, all he could think of when he had met her the next time—accidently, as he claimed—was how much money he could make off her. And now that the event was over and she had casually confided that she probably wouldn’t have anything for him to work on for the next few months, he didn’t want to invest even a few seconds to respond to her message! She was only of use to him physically or materially, and in no other way. How practical—how like a man.

But why was she wasting time thinking about him? Why did it upset her so much? Did she expect him to behave better? One part of her protested and said he was probably a nice person and too many assumptions were a bad thing. But the other part, the loud and practical part, the part that had been hurt and humiliated, screamed, no, he’s a creep and I shouldn’t waste even a second thinking about him! The work had been completed, the money had been paid, and all was over and done with.

But the thoughts stayed, despite her attempts to shake them off, and she spent an uncomfortable night.

‘Subah, today’s newspaper.’

‘Thanks, Bala.’ Clutching the newspaper the next morning, she climbed the stairs and pulled a chair from her studio out onto the terrace. Her studio occupied just a third of the roof, and the rest was mostly covered in pots, from where fresh gerberas, marigolds and roses greeted her.
On the front page of the newspaper was the declaration that New Delhi was in the grip of dengue. It was unusual, the report added, as mosquitoes shouldn’t have had the chance to breed in the cold. But the winter had been milder that year, and pollution had kept it even warmer. Children were the worst affected. Since it wasn’t the usual time to be careful of mosquito bites, mothers had not been applying repellant creams on their children’s exposed skin. On an inside page, there was a picture of a young girl lying unconscious in critical condition in one of the city’s hospitals.
Subah’s eyes flew open as she recognized the girl. It was Sara. She was sure it was her, even though she had met her only once.

She shot up, and as she ran down the stairs, she collided with Bala, who was on her way up with a cup of coffee. Though both women found their balance and didn’t fall, the hot coffee scalded Bala’s hand.

‘Shit.’ Subah rushed to the medicine cabinet in the bathroom and pulled out the Burnol cream. She dabbed cold water on the affected part and covered it with the cream.

Within seconds, her mind was back to the newspaper. ‘This is Sara, Bala. The girl who visited us at the exhibition, remember?’

Bala looked at her blankly and, after a few seconds, said she didn’t remember.

But Subah was convinced it was her.

She felt guilty for assuming all the wrong things about why her father hadn’t been responding to her calls and messages. In such circumstances, how could he reply?

Subah decided to go see the little girl. But she had no idea which hospital the picture was taken in, as it just said ‘a city hospital’.
Half an hour later, she was at the Safdarjung Hospital, one the biggest in central Delhi, which came to her mind first. At the information desk, she was asked the child’s full name and realized she didn’t know. The girl’s name was Sara, and her father’s name was Johnnie Sparks. That made her Sara Sparks. But her father had said that was only his business name, and she had never asked his real name. And even if he’d wanted to tell her, he hadn’t tried again after the way she had reprimanded him the first time. But what was the name he had said the
first time? Nothing came to mind. And then she
remembered. It was Akash. Had he also mentioned a surname? Probably not.

She thought about the cheque she had issued to him, but it had been made out to Johnnie Sparks Private Limited. So the fact was, she didn’t know Sara’s surname.
‘The child’s name is Sara.’

She waited as the woman punched in a few keys on the computer. After a minute, she looked up and said, ‘Sorry, there’s no one by that name.’

‘Oh, okay, maybe her formal name is different. Could you please check for the name Akash? That’s the father’s name.’

The woman pushed a few more keys, and this time looked up within a few seconds. ‘What’s the spelling?’

Subah had no idea about the spelling. It could have a double ‘a’ or a double ‘k’, or even a double ‘s’. Many parents consulted numerologists these days to ensure that their children’s names were lucky. The spelling didn’t matter.

She stayed quiet and stared blankly.

‘What is his surname?’

‘I’m not sure about that either.’

‘So who exactly are you and why do you need this information?’

When Subah didn’t answer, she said, ‘I’m sorry, but I can’t help you unless I know how you are related to the patient.’

Subah walked away, sat in her car and wondered why she was doing this. Someone’s child was sick, and her father and mother must be taking good care of her. And yet, she felt a pull towards the girl, as if she were connected to her in some way.

The girl was the only one who had spotted the snail in her work. Subah had had the image of a snail in her mind when she had painted it, but the other themes that she had tried to incorporate had made it impossible to spot the snail. She could still see it because it was her work, but no one else had. Except for that little girl. The girl who had deconstructed her most complicated painting. What else might she have said about it?

Subah turned on the ignition of her car but switched it off again.
She dialled Akash’s number once more. She wasn’t stalking him, just trying to learn if his daughter was well.

‘Hello?’

‘Hi, this is Subah. How’s your daughter?’

‘Subah, this is Rohit, Akash’s friend. I’m sorry, but she is very sick. And you are?’

‘Well, I’m Akash’s client, and I met Sara once. She’s a
bright kid.’

‘Yes, she is. Just like her mother and father. Look, I’ll pass on the message that you called.’

‘Wait, can you tell me where Sara is? I mean which hospital?’

‘Fortis, Vasant Kunj.’

‘Thanks.’

Subah knew what to do next. She grabbed a quick sandwich and coffee at a deli on the way to Fortis. She needed to see this special little girl and pray for her to get well soon.