I read this story in my adolescence and it has remained with me as one of my favourites (I have too many favourites). (I don't remember the author though)
The story reaches its turning point at the time when a girl who is sharing a house with a friend falls sick and is bedridden. Her health is poor and her spirits are low. One of the people living in their vicinity was this eccentric painter who always said that his best painting was yet to come. The painter and the girls interacted occasionally and shared conversations over various things.
Anyways, the sick girl holds on mentally to this lonely creeper by her window and is distraught to see the creeper lose its lovely green leaves - a sign of the vine wearing away to a slow death.
It starts raining hard one night. The sick girl looks out of the window and sees the leaves of the creeper succumb to the pressure of the falling raindrops. "I will not survive the night, just like this creeper", she tells her friend. The roomie is distressed and tries to calm down her friend but to no avail.
The night progresses and the two girls watch the leaves disappear in the onslaught of the rain. Leaf after leaf goes away till only one remains. The girls swim between sleep and wakefulness.
When the dawn breaks and light starts coming back into the room, the sick girl opens her eyes and sees outside. The rain has stopped and the single leaf on the creeper has survived. The sick girl is jubilant. She held onto the skewed belief that if the leaf remained, she would be able to get through the night. And the leaf was there. It was there. And she was alive.
When I was in the hospital, around 20th I let a hand stay on my bosom and I was startled to feel a tiny heartbeat. I thought my Lola was alive, only that she was in good hands in a different city. Once I discovered the little beat, I felt for it obsessively, thinking that if the beat remained, it was a sign my baby was there. And I kept 'in touch' with the beat.
It was an illusion. But it was good till it was there. And till I thought Lola had a chance. That, 'we' had a chance.
I never shared that secret heartbeat with anybody. I felt it connected me to her someway.
Why did I tell you about the painter?
The painter died a few days later, having caught pneumonia from standing outside a window in the pouring rain painting a small leaf on a lonely creeper.
My painter was immortal. He could have painted a whole canvas in thunderstorms and rains and not lost a thing.
** - Title comes from a George Michael Song.
The story reaches its turning point at the time when a girl who is sharing a house with a friend falls sick and is bedridden. Her health is poor and her spirits are low. One of the people living in their vicinity was this eccentric painter who always said that his best painting was yet to come. The painter and the girls interacted occasionally and shared conversations over various things.
Anyways, the sick girl holds on mentally to this lonely creeper by her window and is distraught to see the creeper lose its lovely green leaves - a sign of the vine wearing away to a slow death.
It starts raining hard one night. The sick girl looks out of the window and sees the leaves of the creeper succumb to the pressure of the falling raindrops. "I will not survive the night, just like this creeper", she tells her friend. The roomie is distressed and tries to calm down her friend but to no avail.
The night progresses and the two girls watch the leaves disappear in the onslaught of the rain. Leaf after leaf goes away till only one remains. The girls swim between sleep and wakefulness.
When the dawn breaks and light starts coming back into the room, the sick girl opens her eyes and sees outside. The rain has stopped and the single leaf on the creeper has survived. The sick girl is jubilant. She held onto the skewed belief that if the leaf remained, she would be able to get through the night. And the leaf was there. It was there. And she was alive.
When I was in the hospital, around 20th I let a hand stay on my bosom and I was startled to feel a tiny heartbeat. I thought my Lola was alive, only that she was in good hands in a different city. Once I discovered the little beat, I felt for it obsessively, thinking that if the beat remained, it was a sign my baby was there. And I kept 'in touch' with the beat.
It was an illusion. But it was good till it was there. And till I thought Lola had a chance. That, 'we' had a chance.
I never shared that secret heartbeat with anybody. I felt it connected me to her someway.
Why did I tell you about the painter?
The painter died a few days later, having caught pneumonia from standing outside a window in the pouring rain painting a small leaf on a lonely creeper.
My painter was immortal. He could have painted a whole canvas in thunderstorms and rains and not lost a thing.
** - Title comes from a George Michael Song.
Comments
Post a Comment