Faded Colours

His life wasn’t all bad. But it was not exactly what you’d call extraordinary. He went to college, like everyone else; was an average student, like everyone else; had a decent number of friends, like everyone else; went out for an occasional booze party, like almost everyone else; all in all, life was good. But at times he felt there was something lacking. Something told him that his life could be a lot more colourful had it not been for that missing element. And he couldn't understand what it was.

He talked about it to his best friend. Well, best friend because he spent most of his waking hours with the person, and not really because he confided everything in him. His friend suggested maybe it was because he had no girlfriend. Most of the people his age had girlfriends, not any of his close friends but that was just because either they were not interested in the daily drivel associated with relationships, or preferred booze to girls or well, they had no takers. But him? He just had not felt that way about any girl. He didn’t have the so called Greek God looks but he was fairly good looking, presentably so. He had loads of friends, but none so intimate that he thought he could spend the rest of his life with or even attractive in that sense of the word. He considered this possibility for a while… well, it did sound plausible but then he was not the lovelorn types so he dismissed the idea almost immediately. Yes it would be wonderful to have a girlfriend, to have someone you found attractive, charming, loveable, smart, and all that, all at the same time. But that couldn’t be the reason for this void feeling. That was stupid.

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And that’s when he met her. Social networking sites have proven to be better at match making than matrimonial sites of late. As the trend goes, it worked for him as well. It was not love at first site (or first chat). It was a feeling that grew gradually and beautifully. He didn’t remember when it first hit him that he was attracted to this childlike yet occasionally mature whimsical girl. She was not ideal; she was not without flaws. But he couldn’t see them. He was the laconic, subdued guy and she was the animated, chatty girl. He was the guy who always obliged, never got on the wrong books of anyone, never hurt a fly while she was the girl who always spoke her mind. He was the patient listener; she, the vivacious speaker. He was the level headed bloke; she, the spontaneous spitfire. She filled his life with music and colour. She talked about places he had never seen, people he had never met, tunes he had never heard and cultures he had never known. He was amused by her endless stream of topics and her inexhaustible energy. He fell in love with her love for life. He knew then what had always been missing in his life. No, it wasn’t a girlfriend. It wasn’t just any girlfriend. It was her. It was her zeal. It was her presence. Was he in love? He couldn’t tell. For he knew not, what was love. But for now, he knew she was the single most important thing in his life. It was like his life had a renewed meaning now that she was in the world. He did not feel the void anymore. Nights were filled with the sweet tone of her voice; dreams were filled with the hues of her moods; and morning was another reason to talk to her, to see her.

And so they remained, for quite a long time- inseparable. He suddenly discovered a talent in him that he had never known existed before. He took to painting. He was, unlike her, the kinds who did not pour out his feelings to his near and dear ones, so he found another way to vent out his feelings. The sunshine that she was shone in his paintings; yellow and orange a beautiful mix. The night skies in his paintings lighted up with silver stars that were her laughter. It burst onto the trees as cherries in his next. Her hair ruffled in the wind that blew the scarf off the little girl in his painting. He listened to her as she spoke and he drew her in his paintings. He listened to his paintings as they spoke to him. A time came when he knew not what he loved more, her, or his rendition of her. Love, is such a beautiful thing.

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But, somewhere down that beautiful cobbled street, he failed to listen to her completely. Mesmerized by all that she was and all that he wasn’t, he did not see it. He did not see that she was the butterfly who went from flower to flower, giving it reason for existence. The flowers bloomed, bore honey and coloured the bushes in wait for the butterfly; it gave them a purpose, a meaning to life. The flowers lived when it was graced by its touch. It meant no harm, but it could not stay on forever. It had its own reasons perhaps, or maybe it didn’t. But the flowers had to live on.

It was late when he saw the signs. Her laughter did not sound so merry anymore. The colours started fading. His paintings started a transition from yellow to brown. The night skies became pitch black. The morning sun had set and the eerie moonlight cast ghostly shadows in the deserted alleys of his paintings. The bright sparkling waters became dark and still. The bells didn’t toll. The music stopped. The little girl in his painting had tears in her eyes.

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There was a note where they had found him lying- still as a rock and cold as a stone, bathed in a resplendent blend of colours. His palette lay beside him, upturned and empty. There was only one line in the note – ‘my paintings; they stopped loving me.’

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And somewhere a girl lost her laughter, silenced by a cruel fate.

pics courtesy: lizzy forrester