And the inner, delicate layer of eyeball is the retina...ten layers...fovea centralis... site of maximum acuity of vision...”

I am in a lecture hall trying to grasp an Anatomy lecture.

“...so, injury to it causes blindness...”

My mind, however, reels back to that day.

It was midsummer—21st June—the longest day of the year. I  remember the day vividly. I was elated. After two long years, my best friend was finally coming home. After her SLC exams, Ojaswee had left for Darjeeling to continue her studies. It was the first time we had been apart. We had been like Juno’s swans from the very beginning—we had learnt to babble and waddle together. All our lives, we had been inseparable.

I missed her all the time; while eating our favorite selroti, watching the Harry Potter series, watching the sky change hues at sunset, and aimlessly cycling around town. Everything, it seemed, reminded me of her. But I missed her the most when I completed a painting. She had always been the first person to observe and adore my completed pieces. She didn’t merely glance at them but often went into deep contemplations, “...the red tinge...the hidden lines...the delicacy of the curves....colors...” I almost always had to interrupt her, “Alright, that’s enough, my critic. Even a blind could see my painting after that!”

She used to be my inspiration to start yet another canvas. Ojaswee, as her name suggested, was the light of my creative life. For me, she was the only one who truly understood my passion for art. She was so patient— always with a ready ear, as I droned on about the different painting paraphernalia I would purchase once I became rich and famous.

In the two years  we had been apart, I painted and sketched religiously. I had piles of canvases waiting to be gazed at, contemplated on and scrutinised. Those two years had been tough, both on me and my paintings. I painted without any direction. I stumbled around alone, without a friend.

And now, the wait was over; I was about to meet my companion, my confidante, my critic, my best friend.

—-

The aroma of rice pudding, selroti, and French fries filled my home. The Harry Potter DVD  series lay arranged beside the TV set. They say you can smell vision and taste sounds. The house smelled of our childhood, sounded like her favourite dish, and tasted of her laughter. I had been waiting since early morning. She had been stuck in traffic jam on the highway and had arrived late that evening. It was already dark and she called to tell me that she couldn’t come to meet me that very evening. I was baffled. I  had  meticulously planned a perfect  reunion. And now it was shattered. My eyes welled up, “Ojaswee, I waited for two years but you don’t care,” I wailed and flung the receiver away violently.

All these years, every time I had cried, she had come over instantly. But now minutes turned into an hour, then waned into midnight. I feared she wouldn’t come. Chills ran down my spine. She might have changed; my tears might mean nothing to her anymore. But don’t people change? Was I being childish?

I called her to apologise, but no one answered.  A long full ring... a second full ring... a third full ring... then finally the maid at her house answered, “Oju has been hit by a truck...was on the way to some friend’s home...is in the ER...hospital...head hurt...bleeding profusely...”

I was awake but I could not move. I faded... awake but unaware...breathing...limping....senses all gone. I rushed to hospital...reception....Ojaswee...emergency...Ojaswee...blood....Ojaswee...her parents...Ojaswee...head hurt...Ojaswee... “lost her eyes”.....retina deeply injured.

I was the culprit, my selfish need to give and receive love, my eyes hurt. I wanted to destroy all colors. Eyes are cruel. I wanted every single eye in the world gone.

I didn’t want to face her. I couldn’t face her. But my best friend didn’t even bother thinking it was my fault, “One of your eyes is now mine, artist”, she smiled. A sad smile, a brave one but a genuine one. Her mother handed me a gift wrapped in golden shiny paper that said, ‘Dreams come true!’ She thought of me all these years! The box was a gift of colours. It had 48 hues of poster and acrylic colors, pastel colours, rolls of fine cartridge paper, charcoal colours, various hues of pencils, ranges of painting brushes in a single set. My dream collection. She had known all along....her eyes gone.

—-

I don’t cycle anymore. I can’t stand the sight of the things she used to adore. I wish sun never set, I wish I never have to see crimson streaks across the horizon. Selroti sounds of her pain when the truck hit her. Reading or watching the Harry Potter series ignites in me a fury—a jealousy of seeing perfect friendships and perfect eyes. I wish a magic spell could make her see again...those eyes...most beautiful in the world...her eyes are gone...

Now that I have by dream painting paraphernalia, I have little interest in painting.  My mentor is gone. Her eyes are gone. But she remains, and she continues to inspire me to plunge back into the world of colours. Oju used to be the first one to see my paintings.

Now, she is the first listener. Senses are senses. Eyes can’t hear, ears can. I love ears. She has the most beautiful ears in the world.  “It looks like a portrait of  a woman in pain, she seems to be crying...a baby-like, magenta-coloured figure is at the side...the statue is surrounded

by black cloud...it might be portraying danger...bluish green, purple, pale orange, scarlet, violet, carmine, crimson, Prussian blue, Hooker’s green, vermillion hue, chrome yellow, Viridian hue...” She is the only one who understands my paintings.

She stares into the abyss. She is contemplating. Her lips then break into her warm smile. “Alright, my artist, that’s enough. Even a blind could see the painting after that...”

Silence. Everything stands still.  

Gales of pain rise within me...I feel helpless, breathless...my eyes hurt...they feel out of place. Every time I finish a piece, I take it to her and describe it...trying to find words for different hues. Tears cascade down my face as she traces the colours with her fingers.

 I die a little inside for having lied to my only friend.  All colours have faded from my canvas since the day she lost her eyes. All the colours that I describe to her to everyday are not even there. I don’t want colours anymore.

Black is the only hue in my paintings now.