Avantika
I Don't know how I drive home. There's definitely crying and some blurry vision as I strangle the steering wheel. But the persistent feeling is the constant need to follow in Aman's footsteps and just hit the gas to the nearest cliff. I shake my head. Thinking about Aman under the current situation is about the worst step I can take. The best step I take, however, is stopping across from a police station with the intention to report what just happened. One thing stops me from opening my car's door. What evidence do I have? Besides, I'd rather die than have my family battle a media war for my sake. Yes, Dad and Grandpa, and even my mum, would probably shred the stranger to pieces and be willing to battle all types of wars for me if they knew. But I'm not like them. I'm not antagonistic and I sure as hell don't want them to be in the spotlight because of me. I just can't do that. And I'm so damn tired. I've been tired for months, and this will only add to the weight that has been perching on my shoulders. Mum will be so disappointed in me if she hears that her little girl is covering for a predator. She raised me with the motto of holding my head up. She raised me to be a strong woman like herself and my late grandma. But she doesn't need to know about this. It's not that I'm covering up for him. I'm not. I won't make any excuses for him. I won't consider it anything less than what it is. However, it'll remain buried between me and myself. Just like everything about Aman. Is justice that important? Not when I have to sacrifice my peace of mind for it. I've already dealt with a lot of things on my own. What's another thing to add to the list?
I finally arrive at my family home with a heavy soul and a shredded heart. The blue hues of early dusk start descending over the vast property as the huge gate closes behind me. The door creaks with a haunting sound, and the fog forming in the distance doesn't help in diminishing the spookiness of the scene. I step out of my car and freeze, staring behind me. The hairs on the back of my neck stand on end and my limbs start shaking uncontrollably. What if that crazy bastard followed me here? What if he hurts my family? If he so much as poses a threat to them, I'll become homicidal. No doubt about it. I might be ready to move past what he did to me, but it's different when my loved ones are involved. I swear I'll go mental. Long moments tick by as I inspect my surroundings with my fists clenched by my sides. Only after I've made sure I didn't actually bring a rabid dog with me do I start heading inside. Mum and Dad made this house so big, imposing, but with enough warmth to feel like a home. The building stretches over a large piece of land on the outskirts of Mumbai. The wooden gazebo that sits in the middle of the garden is filled with multiple paintings from our childhood.
The stars I drew when I was around three appear grotesque and absolutely appalling compared to the ones my brothers painted. I don't want to look at them or be hit with that inferiority complex. Not now. So I remove my shoes and sneak down to the basement. It's where our art studios are. Right next to a world-renowned artist's. Anyone in the art circuit knows the name Anamika Singh Rathore, or they'd recognize her signature, Anamika S. Rathore. Her sketches have captured the hearts of critics and galleries all over the world, and she's often asked to attend as a guest of honor at an opening here and an exclusive event there. My mum was the reason behind my and my brothers' artistic tendencies. Samrat is damn effortless about it. Virat is meticulous. Me? I'm chaotic to the point that I don't understand it sometimes. I don't belong to their inner circle. My hand trembles as I open the door leading to the studios Dad had built for us when the twins were ten. Virat Bhaiya and Samrat bhaiya share the big one, and I have a much smaller one. I used to hang with them in my early teens, but their talent crushed my soul and I spent months unable to paint anything. So my mum asked Dad to build me a separate one so I could have more privacy. No clue if she figured that out by herself or if Virat bhaiya confided in her, but it didn't make much of a difference. At least I didn't have to be slammed by their genius and feel smaller every day.
In reality, I shouldn't even compare myself to them. Not only are they older than me, but we're also so different. Samrat Bhaiya is a sculptor, a hardcore sadist who can and will make his subjects into stones if he gets a chance. Virat bhai, on the other hand, is a painter of landscapes and anything that doesn't include humans, animals, or whatever has eyes. I'm…a painter, too. I guess. A sketcher and a dabbler in contemporary impressionism. I'm just not as defined as my siblings. And definitely not as technical or talented. Still, the only place I want to be right now is the small nook in my art studio.
My hand feels cold and stiff as I open the door and step inside. The automatic lights illuminate the blank canvas lining the walls. Mum often asks where I hide my paintings, but she never pushes me to show them, even though they're just in the closet on the far wall where no one can find them. I'm not ready to let anyone see that part of me. This part of me. Because I can feel the darkness shimmering under the surface. That suffocating urge to let it consume me, eat me from the inside out and just purge everything. My fingers tremble as I pick up the can of black paint and splash it on the biggest canvas available. It smudges all the others, but I pay it no attention as I grab another can and another until it's all black. Then I get my palette, my red colors, my palette knives, and my large brushes. I don't think about it as I create bold strokes of red, then I kill the red with the black. I even use the ladder, sliding it from one end to the other to reach the highest point on the canvas. I go at it for what seems like ten minutes when it's actually a lot longer. By the time I step down from the ladder and slide it away, I think I'll collapse. Or dissolve. Or maybe I could just go back to that cliff and let the lethal waves finish the job. I'm panting, my heart pounding in my ears, and my eyes are about to bleed the same red on the painting I just finished. This can't be. This…just can't be. Why the hell would I paint this…this symphony of violence? I can almost feel that raw touch on my heated skin. I can feel his breath over me, his control, and how he took it from me in return. I can see him in front of me with those dead eyes, tall like the devil and with the same imposing presence, his way of taking everything from me. I can almost hear his mocking voice and his effortless manner of speech. I can even smell him—something woodsy and raw that causes my air to get stuck at the back of my throat. My fingers slide to my neck to where he touched me—no, choked me—when a zap slashes through my body and I drop my hand, startled. What the hell am I doing? What happened earlier was obscure, disturbing, and absolutely not something I should paint with these raw details. I've never even drawn anything this big before. Wrapping my arms around my middle, I'm about to hunch over from the assaulting pain. Shit. I think I'm going to throw up.
"Wow." The low word coming from behind me startles me and I flinch as I turn my head to face my brother. The more approachable of the twins—thankfully. Virat bhai stands near the door, wearing khaki shorts and a white shirt. His hair, a realistic imitation of dark chocolate, flies in all directions, as if he just rolled out of bed and landed in my studio. He throws a finger in the general direction of my horror-esque canvas. "You did that?" "No. I mean, yeah…maybe. I don't know. I certainly wasn't in my right mind." "Isn't that the state of mind all artists strive for?" His eyes soften. They're so amber, so light, so passionate, like Dad's. So troubled, too. Ever since he developed that strong aversion to eyes, Virat bhai hasn't been the same. It takes him a few steps to reach my side and wrap an arm around my shoulder. My brother is about four years older than me and it shows in every contour of his face. In every sure step he takes. In every calculated move. Virat bhai has always been orange to me—warm, deep, and one of my favorite colors. He doesn't speak for a moment, silently eyeing the painting. I don't dare to look at it or how he studies it. I almost don't dare to breathe as his hand lies nonchalantly on my shoulder like whenever we need each other's company. Virat bhai and I have always been a team against the tyrant Samrat bhaiya.
"It's…absolutely fantastic, Avni." I stare at him from beneath my lashes. "Are you teasing me?" "I wouldn't do that about art. I didn't know you were hiding this talent from us." I would rather call this a disaster, a manifestation of my fucked-up muse, than talent. It can be anything but talent. "Wait till Mum sees this. She'll have a blast." "No." I step away from him, the reassurances from earlier fading into terror. "I don't want to show her… Please, Bhai, not Mum." She'll know. She'll see the violation in the bold strokes and the chaotic lines. "Hey…" Bhai pulls my shaking body into a hug. "It's okay. If you don't want Mum to see, I won't tell her." "Thanks." I bury my face in his chest, and I must dirty his clothes with all the oil paint, but I don't release him. Because for the first time since the ordeal, I can finally let go. I feel safe from everything. My own head included. My fingers dig into my brother's back and he holds me. Silently. This is why I love Virat bhai the most. He knows how to be an anchor. He knows how to be a brother. Unlike Samrat bhaiya.
After a while, we break apart, but he doesn't allow me to leave. Instead, he perches down to stare at me. "What is it, little princess?" That's what Dad calls me. Little princess. Mum is the original princess. The one Dad worships at her altar and makes all her dreams come true. I'm the princess's daughter and, therefore, the little princess. I wipe at the moisture in my eyes. "Nothing, Bhai." "You don't sneak to the basement at five in the morning, paint this, and then say it's nothing. It can be every word under the sun, but nothing should not be on the menu." I grab a palette and start mixing random colors just to keep my mind and hands occupied. Bhai, however, doesn't drop it. He takes a long detour, then stands between me and the painting I'm totally going to throw in the nearest fire. "Is it about Aman?" I flinch, my throat bobbing up and down with a swallow at the name of my friend. At one point, my closest friend. The boy who understood my haunting muse as much as I understood his lonely demons. Until one day, we were ripped apart. Until one day, we went in different directions.
"It's not about Aman," I whisper. "Bullshit. You think we haven't noticed that you haven't been the same since his death? His suicide is not your fault, Avni. Sometimes, people choose to leave and nothing we could have done would've stopped it." My eyes blur and my chest constricts until it's impossible to breathe properly. "Just drop it, Bhai." "Mum, Dad, and Grandpa are worried about you. I am worried about you. So if there's anything we can do, tell us. Talk to us. If you don't express yourself, we're unable to go anywhere with this situation." I feel myself disintegrating and losing ground, so I stop mixing and push the palette into his hands. "You can probably make a beautiful forest with all that green." He doesn't refuse the palette, but he sighs deeply. "If you're so intent on pushing us away, you might not find us when you actually need us, Avni." A small smile grazes my lips. "I know." I'm good at keeping it all in.
Virat bhai isn't convinced and stays around to try and fish information out of me. This is probably the first time I've wished it was Samrat bhaiya who found me and not him. At least Bhaiya wouldn't push. He doesn't care. Virat bhai cares too much. As do I. After a while, however, he takes the palette and leaves. As soon as the door clicks closed, I fall to the ground in front of the painting of a dark cliff, a black star, and reds of passion. Then I hold my head between my hands and let all the tears loose. By the time day breaks, I'm ready to escape without facing anyone in my family. I pack my suitcase for the new semester, then I take a shower that probably lasts for an hour. I scrub my mouth, my hair, my hands, my nails. Anywhere that psycho touched me.