You are alighting from the auto rickshaw, irritated by the heat, traffic, humidity, and the routine visit earlier to the gynaecologist. When you enter the lobby, the cool air and the ambient music seep into your skin. You can’t catch the words in the lyrics, and it bothers you; the song is muffled yet familiar. Even though you haven’t held a paintbrush in years, you show up for the painting workshop—you need the break. The questions were incessant at your appointment – How old are you? Do you have a husband? You wanted to ask the gynaecologist, if the Hippocratic oath had guidelines about judging a patient, but you are quiet instead. You politely steer the conversation, asking about freezing your eggs. The gynaecologist had left a pamphlet and asked you to come back tomorrow for a follow-up. Climbing up the stairs to the third floor, you huff and puff and tell yourself that you aren’t young anymore. You reach the workshop entrance with the vivid signboard that says, ‘Sip n Paint’.
You were in a relationship the last time you had a drink. Things had not turned out as planned; he wanted children, but a baby didn’t figure in your future dreams. So, three weeks later, here you are. Having mourned him enough, you wanted to clear your head. The paint studio is an open space with tall ceilings, the early evening light casting a warm glow on the white walls. Just to be safe, you are wearing a multicolored linen shirtdress, so the stains won’t show. You tell yourself that it might be fun after all. But you are late by 5 minutes. There are rows on both sides of the hall, pairs of chairs so two individuals could paint together. Most rows are taken, and for a brief moment, you wonder if this is a bad idea, if you should leave. You have always had anxiety about entering a room full of strangers. But just as you’re about to turn—a lean, white-skinned man walks in, and you are both led towards the end of the hall, towards a pair of easels and paints.
He mutters ‘After you’, letting you pass first as you take the inside seat. You feel a bit clumsy getting on the highchair, while he hangs his blazer on the backrest, looking like he walked right out of a meeting. He rolls up the sleeves of his white shirt and you catch a whiff of his woody cologne as he makes small talk.
“Hi, I’m Ian! Nice to meet you”, and he gives you a firm handshake. You tell him your name, and your smile lingers while you turn your gaze back to your easel, uncertain as to what you might paint. A waiter comes by to take orders for your drinks. The first is complimentary, he states, but you can order more and pay. You both nod; Ian chooses a Whisky Sour while you ask for a Cosmopolitan. The instructor walks up and down between the tables, talking to the class with a clip-on microphone. She asks you to keep pace, and you unscrew the tiny glass bottle of blue acrylic paint and fret over the name of the shade.
“This isn’t Cerulean.”
“Pardon me,” mutters Ian. He is struggling to get his bottle of paint open, while you point your paintbrush accusingly at the name of the paint.
“This should be Azure, not Cerulean. If it was Cerulean, it would have to be a tad more Teal.
”Ian laughs, and you detect a faint trace of coffee on his breath. “You do know that I’m a man? For me, this is blue.”
Just then, the drinks arrive. You clink the glass with Ian and take a sip of the Cosmopolitan. Picking the widest brush, you dip it into the bottle of Azure, refusing to call it Cerulean, and make an awkward curved stroke on the white canvas. The vividness of the blue calms your nerves. You take another sip of the Cosmopolitan and feel the warmth unfurling from your fingers to the tip of your toes. From the corner of your eye, you notice that Ian’s shirt isn’t all white—there are blue pinstripes, nearly undetectable unless you were sitting beside each other. The shirt fits well on his frame, outlining the broad shoulders, and there aren’t any wrinkles on the fabric.
Fueled by liquid courage, you find yourself talking— “I haven’t held a paintbrush since I was a child!”
“Me neither! I think I was traumatized by my sister, because she once painted my face green when I was asleep.”
“Like a baby Hulk?”
And you both burst out laughing, while your eyes linger on his crimson cheeks. Swallowing the urge to run your fingers through his bouncy straw-colored hair, you take a big swig of the Cosmopolitan.
The painting instructor stops by your seat, and asks you to wear an apron, warning you that the flecks of paint won’t wash once dried. She then speaks to the class; the next step is to blend white with the blue, she says. You take a sip of your drink, while your hand creates a gradient with the white on your canvas—it takes the shape of a wave.
Over the next hour or so, the painting progresses; you add a surfing board as instructed, everyone has been doing the same. You are on your third glass of Cosmopolitan. The colors on your canvas make it seem like you’re sitting at a beach.
The instructor asks for everyone’s attention—
“Great job, everyone! Now I want you all to close your eyes...”
You take a sip of your cocktail, before shutting your eyes.
“… and take a deep breath.”
When you inhale, you smell paint and Ian’s woody cologne. You can’t resist, so you pry open your right eye and study his face. He looks calm and serene. You imagine him in a black turtleneck sweater, grinning against the backdrop of rolling meadows, stretching an arm in your direction. Your heart is thumping.
“I want you to visualize the waves. And think about what you want to put on that surfboard. An object or an animal, anything you want. Imagine the outline, and the shape of this mysterious thing.”
Ian furrows his eyebrows in concentration. You retreat into your imagination, closing your eyes once again.
“Take a few minutes to immerse yourself in understanding this object or animal—it’s color, it’s contours—before you paint and bring it into reality.”
You struggle to decide what you should be painting. What you truly want to do, is to put Ian on that surfboard. But you aren’t that good at painting, but it makes you giggle, and you cheat, opening your eyes, just a little bit. Ian leans closer, his eyes still shut, he mutters— “Don’t think of a pink elephant.”
“What?”
“Don’t think of a pink elephant.”
You skim your childhood memories, and a stuffed pink elephant comes to you. With another sip of the Cosmopolitan, you can visualize the fuzzy outline of the pink pachyderm. But when you open your eyes this time, you see it on your left side. A larger-than-life, swinging, trumpeting, pink elephant.
*
“Do you see it?”
“What do you mean?”
“You asked me not to think of a pink elephant, and now – there’s a pink elephant, right here.” Ian laughs, an honest, non-judgmental laugh, and he bumps your shoulder. “Well, you now have your model! Paint it.”
You have finished your third cocktail, and request for a refill. Looking into the box of acrylic colors, you find one that is a vivid pink but is labelled ‘Deep brilliant purple’. You are outraged and point accusingly at the lettering.
“This should have been Fuchsia.”
“C’mon, what happened to calling it just pink?” You point your paintbrush at the pink elephant, tracing its curves in the air, and making hesitant arcs against the backdrop of the blue waves on your canvas. Ian is scratching his stubble, while searching inside his box of paints. He pulls out a bottle of green, and you try to reach out, to see what the shade is called. But he reads your mind, moving the bottle out of your grasp, blocking your attempts with his paintbrush.
“I just want to know what they’re calling it.”
“Nope, not falling for that. Let’s settle for good ol’ green.”
You watch Ian struggle on his canvas, dabbing splotches of green to put Hulk on the surfboard. The pink elephant reaches out to you with its fuzzy trunk, and goosebumps erupt on your skin. You take the tiniest brush, and focus on the pink elephant: first, you add limbs on the surfboard; then, a twist at both ends—a tail and a trunk—and lastly you make measured curves, to give the pink elephant texture. You are humming the song, which was playing in the lobby, you remember it now. Ian joins you, helping with the lyrics. He has painted a lumpy misshapen Hulk, while yours somewhat resembles a pink elephant. The instructor passes your table, impressed with your efforts. She summons everyone to stand at the front with their painted canvases. It’s an eclectic mix of surfing things—an iPhone, a gingerbread man, a black cat. After the instructor takes the photograph, people talk for a while and begin to leave.
*
You pick up your painting and walk out with Ian, and he leads you to the elevator, the one you never noticed when you came in this morning. Pressing for the ground floor, you wait, and sense that the pink elephant is following you too. You chat with Ian, about a lot of nothings, but what you are really thinking about is how this could play out. After you confess your feelings to Ian, he would reciprocate, and you would go on a few dates before getting into a relationship. But the chemistry would fizzle out in a year; both of you would agree on the incompatibility before parting ways amicably.
Or maybe Ian is married with two kids. This would turn out to be a massively embarrassing misunderstanding. You would go home, make questionably strong Cosmopolitans, nurse your heartbreak and hope to never cross paths with Ian ever again.
Perhaps, you would hit it off very well and the sex would be amazing. You wouldn’t be able to keep your hands off each other, but then you find that he has been cheating. You would break it off and move to a different country.
The pink elephant nudges you out of your reverie, snapping you back to reality. You are inside the elevator now, raising a finger to press for the ground floor. Your palm brushes Ian’s who is also trying to reach the number panel. This unexpected physical contact creates static between your fingers, stirring something within you, and you can see that Ian is blushing too.
By the time the elevator reaches the ground floor, something has shifted deep within, a crack in the wall from where sunshine and warmth are seeping in. The pink elephant is flapping its ears. Ian exchanges phone numbers with you and shakes your hand before parting ways. You book an auto, and head home, cradling the painting and a pink elephant in tow.
It’s late when you reach home. The rain arrives, just as you cross the threshold, and it puts you in a melancholic mood. The pink elephant stands near the window and traces the raindrops on the glass surface with its trunk, as if experiencing monsoon for the very first time. It is perfect weather for chai; you crush ginger, boil water and simmer tea leaves. While you sip your beverage, the pink elephant gasps, pointing its trunk towards the sky. The thunderstorm has calmed, and the clouds recede to reveal the slender crescent of the moon. Smitten, the pink elephant questions, if the moon has always been this beautiful.
‘A lua é mentirosa… The moon is a liar.’
The pink elephant tilts its head at an odd angle and looks at you, its soft brown gentle eyes exuding innocence. It asks if you have been writing poetry lately. You evade the request, saying you can’t find your notebook. It badgers you, but you try to talk your way out with the excuse that you write for yourself. After a little more persuasion, you give in, flipping the pages and reading out what you had written last week.
A woman loves nine in her lifetime
The first three always leave a trace,
Crafting the maiden heart’s maze.
Next three are passionate,
Burn bright; seldom stay.
The last three loves –
Be warned,
Beware,
Cher.
The last three loves – be warned, beware, Cher; you repeat. You immediately think of Ian and smile. The pink elephant flaps its ears. A cool breeze wafts through the window tingling your skin. You look into the eyes of the pink elephant, and it understands; there is no need to say more. You stare at the moon for a while, before retiring to bed.
*
You wake up at 6am, like any other day; but today, there’s a fuzzy pink elephant snuggled next to you in bed. You brush your teeth, splash your face with cold water and go on with your routine. When you head into the kitchen, the pink elephant follows you and moves around sniffing things while you butter toast and make omelettes for breakfast. When it tries to dip into your coffee, your reaction is instant—you swat its trunk away with the pink business newspaper and down the cup in one gulp.
When you’re getting ready to visit the gynaecologist, wondering what to wear, the pink elephant inserts its trunk into your shelf and pulls out a grey satin shirt. The pewter shade brings back memories of your breakup, how he had called you at work and said this wasn’t working, and you had found the nearest meeting room and collapsed on the carpet, sobbing uncontrollably. You distinctly remember how it was pouring outside, while you closed the blinds against the somber sky, the clouds an ominous slate grey. When you had wiped the snot and tears on your satin sleeve, it had dried against the warmth of your skin. But now, all cleaned up, the shirt held the promise and shine of fresh beginnings. You smile at the pink elephant, get to the walk-in closet and change your clothes.
As you get dressed, you think about Ian. You are contemplating all the outrageous possibilities. What if Ian wasn’t real – what if you would look at the pictures from Sip n Paint’s social media, only to find that there was nobody standing beside you. How devastating it would be, if Ian was a figment of your imagination, if it was all a hallucination. You zap yourself out of the rabbit hole and tuck your shirt in before walking out to take your phone out of the pink elephant’s grasp. Scrolling through your contacts, you find Ian’s number, to reassure yourself, before berating yourself for overthinking.
The pink elephant has moved to exploring the contents of your handbag now. An inquisitive trunk pulls out the pamphlet from the gynecologist’s office, the one about freezing your eggs. “Don’t put all your eggs in one basket”, it says, and you chuckle while the pink elephant looks at you sideways. The words on the flyer are intriguing: freedom, reproductive options, modern woman. You want that for yourself. The conversation at the gynaecologist is interesting—you ask the questions this time. How long can I freeze my eggs? What would it cost me? When can I go ahead with this? The gynaecologist is all smiles when you leave. A paying customer is king, even for a doctor.
When you step outside into the waiting room, you feel light. You bend down to check if you’re floating, but you are not. The pink elephant is waiting outside, like a guardian who is scared to accompany you, worried for bad news. But seeing you smile, the pink elephant is relieved, but senses that something has changed. Once outside, you see little girls huddled around a pink candy floss machine, and you buy one for yourself and another for the pink elephant.
Anusha Mysooru has put down roots in Bengaluru but grew up in Mysooru. She is a planner at heart and a reticent writer on a quest to find the elusive cat in the shimmer. Her stories have appeared in Mean Pepper Vine, Pena Literary magazine, The Aleph Review and elsewhere. She despises doing laundry, enjoys her black coffee, and is indifferent about heaven or hell but hopes the afterlife will have a library.