Chapter Text
Outside the west-facing window, there stood a ghost. The window looked out of the bedroom into an attached balcony, perched in the second floor of an apartment in Chandannagar. Ray sat in the balcony, sketchbook in hand, pencil in mouth, staring across the lake at the ghost.
The ghost was a faded, yellow building on the other side of the lake. It sat amidst an unfenced garden, it’s front door slightly obscured by a low hanging jasmine tree. Twenty years ago, when Ray was six years old, a swing was unhooked from that tree as he and his Mum left that house for the last time, having been forced to sell it at a nominal rate to the zamindar, and move back to England. It was the house where he had been born. If he squinted his eyes, he could, even then, see the phantom swing swaying in the autumn wind.
And now, there was that man.
Ray didn’t know him — not conventionally, at least. But he was hardly an acquaintance. He lived in that house, and sat on his own balcony, the one that faced Ray across the lake. It was rather too distant to see his features with clarity, but it was nevertheless a familiar face.
When Ray came to India, a highly qualified and highly unemployed artist, he had sought out to buy back his childhood home. The house had been sold since, to another Anglo-Indian. He had tracked the owner, but had been unable to obtain an interview. Dejected, he had bought the closest possible building, an apartment across the lake infront of the coveted house, and spent the Thursday evenings painting the house, over and over again.
Then came the man. Ash Sinclair, the well established author, the recluse, and the owner of the house who had refused to grant Ray an interview. He had climbed up the stairs one sunny Thursday afternoon, and noticed a man sitting on the balcony directly facing his own across the lake, staring intently at the house. He felt uncomfortable at the scrutiny, and retreated back.
Ray recognised him as the owner, and a dull resentment rose up in him. He huffed, putting back the sketchbook, and went inside. It was the first Thursday he had gone since moving back to Chandannagar without painting the house.
Ray wasn’t there the next afternoon, and Ash was relieved. He settled into the armchair by the balcony, his mind preoccupied with his newest novel. He didn’t notice the man from yesterday setting up his easel in the balcony, noticing him sitting there, putting it away and going back inside. Of course, he didn’t hear the vexed slam of Ray’s balcony door as he left.
Ash made a habit of spending his afternoons at the balcony. A week went by. This Thursday, Ray was determined. After all, it had been his house first. Built by his family. He had every right to paint it. He marched into the balcony and set up his easel and started sketching, carefully omitting the figure reclining in the armchair in the balcony.
Ash saw him, and didn’t get up. He didn’t feel nearly as uncomfortable. After all, it was a picturesque house, and if someone were to paint it, who was he to hinder them? Let the man paint. When Ray looked up, their eyes met, and Ash gave him a small, hesitant wave. He smiled too, but Ray couldn’t see that.
Ray paused for a moment, and waved back. He turned his attention back to the painting. Oh well, let the man stay. It was his house, after all. It would be rude to walk out now that he had noticed him, anyway.
A month went by, and so did the autumnal wind. They were in the lap of winter now. The jasmine tree was in bloom.
Slowly, almost unconsciously, Ash had stopped coming to the balcony except on Thursdays. He had always prized his solitude, but after two weeks having had Ray’s distant company once every seven days, the other six days seemed melancholy. He realised that he liked having Ray across the balcony. It was an almost phantom presence, a nameless sense of company. He liked it.
Ray did not like it. He was vexed at finding Ash at the balcony on the very days he tried to paint. However, he did not walk out, as he had done on the first day. Each week, Ash waved at him, a little more enthusiastically than the day before. He was reluctant to disappoint him. Somehow, in a moment of polite reciprocation, he had waved first the previous week. And Ash had waved back, hard.
They still did not know each other, and as Ray soon came to realise, they did not need to. One day, he was sketching the house, and almost unbeknown to himself, he sketched Ash. He paused, and looked up. He stared for a couple of moments, feeling vaguely unsettled. Then Ash looked up.
He was dressed in blue. Blue as the sky the day was when Ray had left. His black hair matched the black coffee table at his elbow. And, somehow, he fit in the scene as if he had always been there.
Ray looked back at the canvas. He took up the eraser, and aggressively rubbed the sketch of Ash away. He painted over the remaining traces, but as he looked at the finished painting, he could still see the silhouette of a man on the empty armchair.
Next week, he didn’t rub away the sketch of Ash as it materialised on the canvas again, almost against his will. He left it unpainted, however.
They were two weeks into December, and well into Winter. On the third week of December, one week before Christmas, Ash didn’t appear on the balcony.
Ray was relieved. He settled himself comfortably in his chair and started sketching. Nevertheless, as he came to the armchair, he sketched Ash in. He was frustrated with himself, but the scene didn’t look complete without the blurry, reclining figure on it. He decided he would paint over it later.
Still, when it came to paint, he couldn’t bear to efface the sketch. He painted around it, and stood back to examine it.
It looked unfinished with the ghostly white figure in the middle, dirtied by pencil marks.
Ray hesitated for a split second, before sitting back down. He took up his brush, and painted Ash, with a nameless emotion tugging at him. A mixture of reluctance, an inexplicable apprehension, and a barely traceable feeling of loss. He sighed and stood back up, and went inside, leaving the easel on the balcony.
When Ash didn’t appear the next week either, he began to worry. After all, they were neighbours, almost acquaintances. Besides, there was no light in the upper storey. After debating the matter with himself, he decided to pay him a visit.
[. ]
Ray knocked once. There was no response. He knocked again. He fancied there was some shuffling inside the house, but there was no response this time either. With a patience that surprised even himself, he knocked again.
The door opened on the third knock.
It was the first time he saw Ash up close. There were streaks of grey in his black hair, though he could not have been older than Ray by more than a year or two. He had opened the door with an expression of impatience, but as he saw and recognised Ray, it changed to an almost panicked surprise, and then a smile.
“Good morning. I believe you are my acquaintance across the balcony?”
Ray noticed that Ash’s left foot was bare while his right one was in a slipper. It was also hovering slightly in the air, as if Ash was afraid to put pressure on it. He was holding on to the door for support.
“Quite so. You hadn’t appeared for two weeks, and coupled with the absence of lights in the upper storey, I got concerned and decided to pay an unorthodox visit.” He inclined his head slightly. “I hope you will excuse the intrusion.”
Ash laughed slightly. “I am very happy to see you. I had been desirous of making your official acquaintance for a while now, and seems like me spraining my foot was the incentive I needed to fulfil that whim.”
“I am glad to make your acquaintance, as well.” Ray offered his hand. “I’m Ray Campbell.”
“Ash Sinclair.” Ash let go of the doorframe to shake Ray’s hand, and nearly fell on him from the lack of support.
Ray caught his shoulders before he could fall. “Careful, Mr. Sinclair”, he murmured, before helping him straighten back up and guiding his hand to the door. “My, your foot is worse than you led me to believe.”
“I am afraid it might be worse than I myself believed”, Ash winced as he tried to put some pressure on it. “I am very sorry for nearly upsetting you.”
Ray waved away the apology. “We must call you a doctor. You need that foot bandaged. Is it broken?”
“Please, do not be bothered. I slipped down a couple of stairs and sprained it. No need for a doctor. I could’ve bandaged it myself, but my first aid kit is upstairs and I didn’t wish to risk climbing the stairs and taking another fall.”
“If you permit, I can fetch it for you, and bandage your foot myself before calling the doctor.”
“I would be extremely grateful for the assist, but calling a doctor seems excessive—“
“Let me assess the damage first — you need not worry, Mr. Sinclair, I was a volunteer at the Red Cross. I know my first aid.”
Ash relented. “Very well”, he said, and added very softly. “Feel free to call me Ash, if you so wish. Formalities seem redundant in these parts, so far removed from most society. The first aid box is in the living room.”
Ray inclined his head in assent, and went upstairs. For a moment, it struck Ash that he hadn’t asked where the living room was in the upper storey, but he dispelled it from his mind as Ray came downstairs.
Ray looked almost ascetic. He wouldn’t have taken him for a man of the arts by appearance alone. Most artists he knew had an arch of indulgence around their mouths, of a sensualism that is part of most art. He found no trace of decadence, either pecuniary or spiritual, in his face. In fact, it seemed marred by a sense of loss — loss of self, and loss of purpose. His eyes were deeply introspective. With a an embarrassed start, Ash realised he had been staring at the man for a brief second.
Ray gently guided him to an armchair. Usually, when someone, especially a stranger, touched Ash, he felt slightly unsettled. It was different with Ray. He felt downright uncomfortable when Ray touched him, but that discomfort stemmed from how familiar and right it felt, rather than how invasive. Ash disliked his own growing warmth towards the man.
Ray knelt at Ash’s feet, and took the injured ankle and set it upon his lap. Ash involuntary jerked away. Ray looked up in concern.
“It might hurt a little. I’ll be as gentle as possible, don’t worry.”
That was the least of Ash’s worries. His worry was the way Ray was looking up at him, the relatively harsh lines of his face softened, and his worry was the growing sense of intimacy in his heart that repulsed him from himself. He tamped down his growing restlessness and composed himself.
“It’s alright, take your time.”
Ray took his time. He carefully examined his ankle, turning it gentle in his hands, before bandaging it, unaware of the way Ash’s hands were shivered on the armrests every time he touched him. Shivered from a growing fear—and the growing sense of comfort that that fertilised the fear.
“Well”, Ray stood up, dusting his hands on his trousers. “There you go. You sprained it very badly, but it will need regular heat therapy and perhaps massaging. We must call in a doctor.” He moved towards the landline.
Ash quickly shot out his arm and caught his hand, and immediately regretted it. Ray looked back at him quizzically, but do not pull away.
“I would rather not.” Ash felt his face flush slightly with embarrassment. “You see, I am a rather private person, and I prefer to keep to myself. A doctor’s visit would be…invasive.”
Ray looked at him for a moment, as if making up his mind. Then he relented.
“I shall not impose it upon you. However, you must allow me to check in with you once a day until your foot is healed. I cannot, I’m good conscience, let a neighbour suffer so without trying to alleviate it.”
“Very well”, for a moment, Ash felt almost excited, which he disguised to himself as gratification. “I would be glad for your company. Would you like to stay awhile for tea?”
~
It felt strange to enter the kitchen after twenty years. When he had been there last, Ray had been smaller than most of the cabinets under the kitchen island. He set the teapot on the tray and carried it back to the living room. Ash had shifted from the armchair and was reclining on the couch. Ray set the tea tray on the coffee table and sat on the vacant armchair.
They sipped their tea in silence, both holding back questions under the restrain of politeness — and something else. But it was a comfortable silence.
“You paint this house often, Mr. Campbell.” Ash cleared his throat slightly. “Not that I mind. Is there a reason for it?”
Ray’s reply was strange, and wholly unexpected to himself. “I paint you, too.” He regretted saying it immediately.
Ash started, setting down the tea cup. “You paint me?”
Why had Ray said that? There was no reason to. He chided himself. He thought to deflect by telling him that the house was his childhood home, but unaccountably, he was unwilling to. It was hard to tell why; after all, it was no secret, nor a private matter. But he did not wish to disclose it, nonetheless, not that very moment at least.
“Only very vaguely. Just the silhouette of you. The scene looks incomplete, otherwise.” Ray’s voice was apologetic.
Ash leaned back, a little thoughtful. “I should like to see it sometime.”
“Very well, I will bring about one of the paintings someday.”
Someday. The promise of continuance. Ash liked it. He noticed that Ray had evaded the question, but he did not press it. He tactfully changed the topic.
“I play the violin, sometimes. Perhaps I could play for you.”
“I would heartily appreciate it. Music constituted a very significant part of my upbringing. My mother was a musician, specialising in Rabindrasangeet.”
Ash brought out a violin. A spruce and maple violin, well polished, quite like one Ray’s mother had briefly owned before having to sell out of need.
“Since you professed an inclination towards Rabindrasangeet, you might recognise this tune.” He began to play.
Oh, how long it had been since Ray had listened to music. He avoided cassettes and radios; they reminded him of his mother. He avoided music, in general. Why had he agreed to listen to Ash? Politeness, of course, but there was that unnamable emotion in it— the urge he felt that had driven him to paint Ash, the urge that had made him walk by the long untracked paths that connected the two sides of the lake, which almost nobody except him knew, the urge that made him want to come back to the house, and perhaps to him— “the love that doth not speak its name” — why was Ray remembering that poem? He tried to forget. He had tried to forget.
It took him a moment to recognise the song. And then it dawned on him. “E moni har amay nahi saje”. But how melancholy it sounded on the violin! An yearning, almost— yet, how can you yearn for something that you have, even if you don’t deserve it? How can one yearn for an absence?
“His eyes run miles inside”, Ash thought to himself as he played. He did not need to look at the sheet music, he knew it all by heart. He was looking at Ray, slightly fascinated by the faraway look in his eye, slightly concerned by the haunted expression in them. No, not haunted. Hunted. He knew he was staring, but he didn’t mind it, this time. He wasn’t hurting him by looking.
The song ended. The both seemed the come out of a trance. Then, Ray shook his head with bemusement, and smiled. “That was lovely.”
When Ash saw that smile, he realised that all the smiles before had been perfunctory. This was real. He felt something familiar, something he had felt a long time ago, before realising that he felt happy. Just a little, in fact, it was more easiness than happiness. But it was there. A mustard seed of happiness.
Ray caught himself musing. That was strange, but not new. He had not mused, not even thought, really, for a long time. When he was a boy, he was always lost in thought. Somehow, under the weight of financial hardships, rejections from jobs, professional deprivation, he had sunk into an abject melancholy he had wholly failed to notice. It was only when Ash’s music stirred him that he realised his soul had been left unstirred for too long. He felt almost grateful, and enjoyed that feeling of gratitude, as well. He was happy to have something to be grateful for—happy? Yes, happy. Cautious. Small. Undeniable.