THE CHRYSANTHEMUM.

The trees beyond Shruti's window were in full leaf. The heavy wind interlaced a murmur among the leaves. A soft sylvan music was flowing-a harmony of leaves, the southern wind and the sweet aimless whistle of the birds. The pinnacle of the great mountains lit up like a crown of glory in the last rays of the setting sun. Shruti was on her way to the foot of those pixie mountains to collect summer flowers, gathered from the hillsides in bright summer colours. Watching her svelte figure disappear into the woods, I was lost reminiscing my time with her.

It was almost a year ago when I first caught sight of Shruti. A girl in her mid- twenties, she had a straight finely chiseled nose, a wide smooth forehead and long black hair neatly bundled behind. The face was not broad enough, the features were too graceful, and those intense blue eyes spoke only of the far north of India. But the most astounding features were her eyes- intense, clear, very irrefutable blue eyes. A graduate in fine arts, she was a distant niece of Mrs. Bose and had lost her parents in her early childhood. After her days in the hostel were over she decided to live with her old aunt.

The room Shruti lived was made of small yellow bricks brought from England. There was a wardrobe in one corner; a rock chair in front of the latticed window, while on the opposite wall was the old grandfather clock with its pendulum non-coherently ticking away. Here and there you can find some dead magazines. On the ledge was the record player that amused Shruti with some squashy tunes. But canvasses covered most of the spaces with scattered broken tips of lead pencils. Sketching took up most of her time.

Shruti lived in a world of doodles. Her room was full of sketches, an imaginary surrounding of black and white encompassing the mountain, the long and winding road, the woods, and the birds that hopped and played. She depicted spring and winter and the benevolent mood of Nature. At times I've wondered whether I would find a place in one of her canvasses.

Learning Shruti through the day was delightfulness- a feeling completely indescribable and above all it was a secret to be concealed from everybody. It was a feeling whose beauty was beyond speech and thought- utterly incommunicable. I dreamt of Shruti standing in front of those latticed window, with her blue solemn eyes lost in the distant horizon. A thousand blended notes were in the air while the nonchalant wind caressed the black hair that gleamed like a raven’s wing. My dream took us on a walk under a clear evening sky when my life would be drawn into the vortex of a larger world-the appealing world of Shruti.

For the past few weeks, since the arrival of spring, Shruti wrote letters. She would fill the pages carefully in a coloured envelope and fly off to the post office. Then a waiting look would set in her eyes while she turned restless with every passing day. But the reply brings an innocuous smile on her face when she reads them in front of the open window-an opalescent beauty bathed in twilight. The letters came from Palash, her fiancé.

The rustling of the leaves brought me out of the reverie. A recent telegram brought the distressing news. Shruti had been selected for her post graduation course in another country. Palash had completed all formalities and was scheduled to come next week to take her away. A prolonged sibilance filled the night as the darkness came in long waves. A gnawing fear started to grow inside me. How would my world survive without extracting the full deliciousness of Shruti’s world? How am I going to manage? Shruti had been my time, the now and then around me. My time was woven around her. I never had any recollections how the seasons went by-the scorching sun that beat down on my branches with conceited indifference, the rain filling me up, nourishing my leaves till the bitter shivering winds turned them numb, ultimately shredding them. The thought of my world without Shruti was beyond deliberation- a colourful world turned white. The pines and the ferns around me were lost in darkness. There was a stupid lump in my throat that suddenly hurt. Shruti’s slender figure was lost in the woods but I continued to stare after her. I closed my eyes in pain shutting off the trail leading to Shruti’s world.



Shruti’s tale.
My sojourn in this wonderful world would end tomorrow. The place was almost like a wonderland. The urge to migrate to the world of colours that always eluded me was overpowering I know I’ll never be a successful painter. If I was I could have portrayed my reverie-the chrysanthemum, an extraordinary surprise that had a tranquil effect upon me.

When I first saw it I was struck by its soft mellifluous exquisiteness. I never knew how it was here and I never wished to know. I tried to personify its beauty in that empty canvass but failed every time. The beauty was utterly unportrayable. Its world was the laid-back wind, the blissful ferns and the birds chirping a merry song. I’ve wondered whether I could cross the threshold to its world, a world that said peace, said remoteness, and sleep. At times, I don’t know why, I had a queer feeling that the chrysanthemum is watching me with extraordinary intensity, perhaps a bit amused at my world of black and white.

Palash would arrive by the morning train and the first thing he will ask me would be about the chrysanthemum. It brought colours to my otherwise world of black and white. Once more I would take up the empty canvass tomorrow and maybe finally the chrysanthemum would be my first portrait.