THE BOY WITH THE DREAM

5

 Looking at the grey sky, I let out an exhausted sigh which was inevitable to escape as I witnessed the window, dripping water from the edge, turn blur for it again starts to rain. 

I was tired. It was― maybe apparent from my face and sweat-soaked body for my mother who had passed by the study turned gymnasium on the second floor of our house, gave me a nod of approval with her ever so supportive and proud smile. She seemed happy for reasons unknown to me as she giggled her way down to the living room. Not long after, my father tailed after her whistling a Bollywood tune from the nineties, giving me a thumbs up amidst the way. 

I shook my head at their absurdities nonetheless continued running on the treadmill as I looked keenly at the picture hanging on the wall opposite to me. It was a family photo from a trip we had had to Alaska a year back. It was one among our many unplanned trips that would occur by the slip of the fate and out of nowhere. 

It is our family thing to arrange those instant trips where one just has to stuff whatever useable items one could think of to be essential for a trip and hastily catch a train, in our case, it is always some late night flight after a record-breaking drive. The Mittal family plays the partner in crime role by tagging along, adding up spice to the journey. I feel most comfortable with Ayaan out of all the people so I do not mind their company and it is for that I join the family trips even though I hate all the rush mother and I had to endure through for my father’s impromptu decision, and his presence nearby adds up to the whole holiday vibes can be considered another add-up reason. 

Another reason for the joint trip of our families might go to the contacts of Mittal Uncle in the tourist department who arranges the visa formalities for overseas trips. 

Alaska was one of the best visits in my life. Ayaan and I went straight to the first bar as soon as I threw my belongings in the hotel room, got drunk, ate pizza, wander about in the wild, and talked to the people who lived in the small towns up there. 

We worked out two hours in the hotel gym, learnt to do some meditation, earned an invitation to some exclusive bonfire with prominent people where we ended up making out with some tourists from the east. Overall, it was a thrilling experience where our parents enjoyed sight-seeing while we lived through the never forgettable memories of our life. One of the best things about those trips comes out to be some beautiful memories and a thrilling experience that no one could ever forget.

The most prominent part among them was the meeting with the artist I had bumped into while flying in the same helicopter in Ketchikan. He appeared to be a loner or maybe―depressed who wanted nothing but to be left alone on his own, but as it has been quoted by Mr Coelho―despair can deceive the desperate, I was deceived by my desperation for some company. Ayaan had betrayed me over a chick who had agreed to eat out with him that promised him an earth-shattering experience of having s*x in one the best places on earth, making me a loner for a few hours. I found his name was Ivan, he was an artist from France who had brought his girlfriend to the trip only to get dumped over a small argument. His works were available at multiple prominent places in Paris and he lived opposite to the Academy of music. We chatted for a while, clicking snaps of places together, talking about famous paintings available in the market, the techniques those painters had used in their creation and the amount of dedication they had invested in creating it. 

“It is all about the passion, Surya. The fire in you can burn everything. You just have to lit it.” Ivan had said once I told him how I was struggling to finish a painting from past two years, he further advises me to imagine the complete masterpiece with my eyes closed before I began to draw it the next time. “The clearer the picture in your vision would be, the closer you would be creating it.” I smiled at his words and by the time the helicopter dropped us off, I had earned an invitation and a promise of having a drink with him the next morning and him teaching me the magical tricks to use on a canvas to make it speak. 

Ivan was a magician who knew the art of casting spells through his paintings. His works were phenomenal and so captivating that I began to envy him. He was astounded and being a curious amateur painter, I adored his acquaintanceship more than anything. I was looking for a mantra to enhance my art, but Ivan was smarter than I thought he was who used to spill the beans mysteriously.

His words were precise and vague, creating an impression of a riddle that challenged your ability. His praises were always challenging, encouraging one to burn and burn until its unbearably damaging. 

Ivan had something that attracted people towards him like a magnet. He was passionate about his work as if he had taken an oath to make a change in the world through his creation. His art was evidence of his efforts that spoke volumes and created vibes around the people whoever sees that. It was magnificent. His vision was unfathomable, his perception felt challenging. 

How can he be so dedicated and passionate? What inspires him? I had been wondering, yet the answer was as vague as his mysterious words were. 

The treadmill beeped indicating the reaching of target slapping me out of my reverie as I slowed down. I hopped off the machine wiped the sweat off my body and jumped in the shower recalling my conversation with Ivan. I was huffing by the time I took shower and laid on the bed looking at the ceiling as I recalled my moments with Ivan, his passion and his creations. He was overwhelming or was it his art? I do not remember it, but it was something strong, an awakening that I could not avoid the urge to paint something, to pour my heart and soul into it and create one masterpiece that history would remember. 

The painting was a passionate hobby that my soul had used to connect with the universe. It gave me calmness and a strange sense of peace that used to make me forget my existence and surroundings. It used to take me to a world that had all the space for my meaningless imagination, my absurdities―perhaps it was the same passion that had been used in making it. 

I stood up from the bed and went to my study where all my stuff, the dozens of paintings I had painted were placed alongside the incomplete painting I had been trying to create. The partially white canvas was mocking me putting forward a challenge and testing my patience and passion in completing the journey I had started. The incomplete painting was my biggest failure that raised questions over my dedication for searching my soul and heart amidst the pool of many. 

I took out the brushes and colour, turned on the light and began examining the incomplete work as I looked past the canvas and stared at the wall. 

“Imagination is not an issue, Surya.” I whispered. “You have always fantasized about everything to nothing. It is not about the vision. It is about the passion.” I nodded my head and began brainstorming. As I imagined myself at many places, sometimes I used to stop walking and fantasized about any particular object to be replaced from the actual position to my imaginary one something I had done four days ago where I had fantasized an empty wall to be a rotating skateboard and ended up spray-painting the wall in a skateboard structure. 

“Just close your eyes and ask your heart what it really wants. You will see the clear picture that has been dying to appear on the canvas.” Ivan had said. 

 I arranged all my painting kinds of stuff and closed my eyes, letting the chilly wind play with my hairs. Engrossed in imagination, my hands started to move magically on canvas. I was stealing glances of outside scenery of rain and drenched trees. Those grey clouds full of water were piercing through my heart creating a feeling of strange restlessness in my heart. 

 I did not know what time it was when I finally stopped and my imagination faded away for I did not care. I was busy admiring my creation. The first painting that I had painted with my heart and not imagination or techniques―a mesmerizing creation I had drawn on the before the white canvas and unlike any other times where my creations brought solace to my heart, this painting started sudden havoc in my heart. 

 I had drawn Rain on the black surface that was creating a thunderstorm in my mind. 

 I had painted a girl walking under the rain in the night holding a whirlpool of emotions in her deep as ocean eyes. She was clutching a red umbrella in her hands looking sacred. Her hairs were dripping water as her silky white cloths clad her creamy body like a second skin. Her curves were giving her a look of a nymph that could make any man lose his sanity. 

 “Why did I draw her?” I thought. 

 There was no doubt I admired the girl, but it had always been out of her hard work and intelligence. I liked her devotion for creating a better tomorrow, her persistence for a better-looking future. 

It was the first time, I was attracted to her beauty. First time in all those years I was so curious to know her personally. I wanted to befriend with her righteously. I was not looking at her as my competitor anymore rather, I was looking at her as a simple yet very beautiful girl who can be a bit more than a friend.

Recalling the night; I had drawn Sonia on the night when I met her for the file. I was eager to solve the mystery of the universe, but I knew one thing for sure that if I had drawn her it means I had to know her at any cost, not for her, not for me but me this crazy stupid mind and this super crazy heart. 

 I got a mystery to solve that year and with that, I again started to watch my creation while listing a very melodious sound of water droplets falling on the surface.