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Hello guys. I am back with another chapter. Yes. I know I am awfully late and I apologize immensely. I am really sorry. 😕
That being said, here is more bad news.: Because of life and its love for complications, chapter updates will be far and spread out. Sorry
And finally a big thank you to all of you who took the time to read, like and comment on this story. You guys are the absolute best. Love you all a lot.😃❤️
🤗
CHAPTER 6
The Sarna Empire's Italian Headquarters was 2 hours away from their villa and the first day Kunj had returned from his new' office, he had been dead tired. The office was in its initial set up days and every little thing needed supervision and approval. They were files to be prepared and filed to be signed. The shipment for their raw materials had to be placed in and budgets were to be fixed. Add his poor Italian vocabulary skills are you have yourself a disaster. Well at least he could say that his miming skills were improving considerably.
Twinkle being free for the better part of the day had decided to try her luck in cooking. She had taken a trip down the local market and the muse to make pizza hit her had. She came back with a couple of cookbooks in Italian and bags of fresh produce. Try one, outcome unsuccessful. The crust was burnt and as black as black coffee for lack of better similes. Try two, and a raw crust with over cooked toppings.
Third time is the charm as they say and the pizza was a success. She looked over the clock on the wall that read 7, about time that Kunj said he would return. She was thankful to the lord above them that dinner was done right on time. Small miracles that it tasted good enough too.
Kunj came home to the fire pit flooding the house in a toasty embrace and the smell of oregano and cheese. He dropped his bag and files on the table in the entry way and called out for Twinkle.
"Haan, kitchen mein hoon. Ek second." She yelled with equal enthusiasm before emerging from the said room, apron tied around her slim waist and a hint of flour smudged on her forehead. She hastily wiped her hands dry against the apron and walked towards him with a smile. "Toh" she exhales heavily "Kaisa tha tumhara first day Mr. Kunj Sarna?"
"Tiring. Absolutely tiring and chaotic."
She gives him a sympathetic smile, understanding the amount of work that is required to set up a business in a foreign land. "Bhook lagi hogi na? Chalo dinner karte hai." And then as an afterthought continues. "Maine pizza banaya hai" her voice.
For a second he thinks that he might skip dinner, considering Twinkle was never gifted in the field but then the aromas flow in and fill his olfactory senses and he reconsiders.
He takes his seat on the mat by the fireplace and she places the plate in front of him. Being the child they are they dive in the delicacy only to drop it down again on realizing that it was hot. When the pizza had manageably cooled down, they started again.
One bite in, and he must admit, had to admit that it wasn't bad. It was quite good in fact. He could taste the olives, the halloumi cheese, the parmesan, the capsicums and then-
"Pineapple?" he was confused. Did he just taste pineapple? "Tu ne pizza par pinapples dala hai?"
"Haan," she says and her eyebrows rise up as if fruits as pizza toppings were absurdly normal a thing to do. "Kyu?"
He has an internal debate with himself, because who puts pineapple on a pizza! "Pizza par koi pineapple dalta hai kya?" he says, face scrunching up in disgust but he takes another bite despite it. He might not admit this to her but the pizza tasted really good. The grilled fruit giving it a tangy tartness that paired really well with the halloumi.
"Tum pizza par pineapple nahi dalte?" Twinkle asks. The whole idea of pizza without pineapple on it a foreign concept to her. Well, he should thank his lucky stars that she hadn't added strawberries on it too. But then she sees him helping himself to another slice and she knows that he likes it. She knows he wouldn't admit it and so she doesn't say anything either. They eat in silence instead, the fire dancing in brilliant reds, yellows and oranges casting a warm glow on their faces and engulfing the rest of the room in shadows.
He decides it these quirk he likes best about her. Of course he knew people liked fruits on their pizza and called it Hawaiian' but he never thought that Twinkle would be in that minority. "Usually pizza ke saath Cabernet acha lagta hai par anti-depressants and alcohol don't mix." She says. Alcohol-no-wine with pineapple pizza. A round of applause for Twinkle and her quirks.
They go to bed early that night.
A week later official matters have finally settled into normalcy. The business is running smoothly and Kunj doesn't return that tired home. This time he doesn't return home to the wafting aromas of ravioli or kadai paneer but -paint? Yup, its most definitely paint. It piques his curiosity because Twinkle most definitely has found herself another topic that she can make a siyappa out of. He calls out to her as he always does after reaching home. Drops his keys and bag by the door and call out her name again. Her voice floats through the house in a hollow echo. He places the voice and Twinkle herself in the spare bedroom.
The spare bedroom so far was completely empty save for the swing set and rug she had purchased and placed there. He had only been there a couple of times and soon lost interest in the room. It was just a spare after all. The view wasn't great either, just their backyard.
He climbs up the step, half in thought about her doings when she comes rushing down. Her fingers glistening with wet blues and purple, a paintbrush tucked behind her ear and another big one holding her hair up in a haphazard bun. She smiles up at him, her eyes alight with joy, so he decides to forgo the taunts and insults.
"Main painting kar rahi thi" she says stating the utter obvious and hold up he hand for him to inspect.
"Dikh raha hai." He smiles this time, because its adorable how excited she gets over such trivial things.
They both move down towards the kitchen together. Pata hai, I used to get awards in school, painting ke liye." She continues with eager enthusiasm as she opens the tap in the sink and scrubs her hands clean. The oven dings and she asks him to take out the tandoori out. Of course Tandoor was an essential part of the Punjabi heritage but finding a tandoor in Italy was highly unlikely so she had to make do with what they had.
"KUNJ?" he stumbles heavily out of his thoughts.
"Sorry! Kya keh rahi thi tu?"
"Tujhe paintings pasand hai? Kabse pooch rahi hoon."
He blurts out without thinking. "Nahi, par mujhe poetry likhna acha lagta hai." And just like that another secret of his is out and in the open. He has been giving out a lot of secret of his to Twinkle. He doesn't mean to or maybe he does but these things, sharing secret comes easily when it is with her. He hadn't told a soul that he likes to write poetry and yet here he stands, having blurted out his biggest secret and passion.
"Wow. Tum poetry likhte ho? Mujhe nahi pata tha Mr. Kunj Sarna tum itne talented ho. Waah!"
They talk a little more about her love for paintings and his love for tragic poems but apart from that they decide not to divulge anything further. Her paintings were something only a fortunate few have had the pleasure of seeing. The ones she did in school was nothing compared to the canvas she coloured in the privacy of her room. The same went with Kunj, his poetries never left the pages of the little black book he scribbled them down in and the little black book never left the bedside drawer. Why? Because no one would understand. They shades that screamed pain could be taken as colours of love and lust. And the poetry that reflected misery would be taken as the blessing of separation. Or maybe they were insecure about their works themselves. But whatever reasons there maybe Twinkle never showed her paintings to anyone and Kunj did the same with his poetry.
"Kunj?" she says in the silence of the night. Kunj was on the shore of blessed slumber when Twinkle started poking his ribs lightly. "Kunj?" again. He knows she wouldn't rest until she got what she wanted.
"Bol Twinkle."
"Tum sab boys apne shirt utaar ke kyu sothe ho?"
Of all the things she could ask, Kunj thinks, of all the things she could ask, she asks him this. She could have asked him his darkest fear, maybe about his childhood pet or even his bank account no. but this was out of the blue.
"Mujhe nahi pata, Twinkle. Shayad kyuki shirtless sona zyaada comfortable hai." He gives her a half-hearted answer because he is answering with half an awake brain.
"Haan?" she sits up on the bed now. "Agar shirtless sona zyaada comfortable hai toh mujhe bhi shirtless sona hai."
What little part of his brain was asleep was now wide awake in shock. His eyes pop open, trying to see if she would actually do it. And in the little light that enters through the gap in their curtains, he can see her reaching down towards the hem of her shirt. He gulps heavily because she is going to be the death of him and before he realizes, the shirt goes over her head and on to the floor by the bed. He doesn't know what he was expecting after that but it sure as hell wasn't her turning over to the other side and promptly dozing off. He couldn't sleep that night.
It became a habit of hers of sorts. 3 of either thing would happen. One, she would spend the entire night in the spare room, painting. Two, she would sleep shirtless. Or three, she would sleep in his shirt.
The first time he catches her wearing his shirt was early morning one fine and beautiful day. He half remembers tossing his previous day's shirt on the floor before climbing into bed only to wake up to the sight of Twinkle, making coffee, wearing his shirt and her knee socks. The shirt was obviously large for her so that it functioned more as a short dress than an actual shirt. But that didn't stop her from adorning his clothes on a more regular basis.
Tonight however was the first kind of night-sort of and also the third. She is wearing his shirt again. But instead of locking herself in that room, she carries her tools and walks in their bedroom announcing "Canvases katamho gaye hai."
"Toh"
"Mujhe paint karna hai, Kunj."
She unceremoniously drops the supplies down by the bed and plops down next to them, thinking about all the available surfaces that she can make do as a canvas. It took the walking figure of her shirtless husband for the metaphorical light bulb to go off in Twinkle's mind. Kunj catches the glint in her eyes that he now knows to always associate with some trouble for him.
He shakes his head, sighing because he is in for it now.
"Tum ne kabhi apni poetries kisi ko nahi batai na?" she makes an obvious assumption.
He answers in the negative and she goes silent again. Waging the wars that's taking place in her mind she finally emerges victorious and voices something she was uncertain she would before. "Agar main tumhe apni painting dekhao toh kya tum mujhe apni ek poetry batao gey?"
They both are hesitant of the notion, unwilling to let the other this deep into the gateway of their souls. "Par aise nahi." She continues. "Main tumhare pete par meri painting karogi aur tum mere pete par apni poetry likho. Iss tarha tum meri painting s to mahsoos kar sakhte ho par dekh nahi sakhte. Fair?"
It takes a little more cajoling before Mr. Sadoo Sarna agrees. She tells she will start to make him more comfortable. So they pull her favourite fleece blanket down on the ground and Kunj lays stomach first down on it. Twinkle smiles behind his back, biting her lips as she reaches for the paintbrush.
The room wasn't exactly bathed in light nor darkness but a dim yellow glow from the lamps on their bedside table. The light hit Kunj perfectly on his back, the gold making him look more like a Greek god than anything else. His well-defined muscles where the cherry on top. She straddles his hips and sits low on his waist.
Her fingers glide over the various tones of paints on her palate. She picks up a tube of vermillion, twirls it around in her hand before deciding against it.
Their position on each other, was supposed to be something intimate in any other situation but for now, their arrangement of limbs was the least on the list. Because intimacy doesn't always have to mean a tangle of limbs and a sheen of sweat over their naked bodies. Intimacy was letting down your guard. Intimacy was giving the other person the power to destroy you but trusting them not to. Intimacy was pouring paint over her husband's back to share the hidden parts of her dusty soul with him.
She finally reaches for the darkest shade of blue available to her and begins. His muscles contract involuntarily when she starts her first stroke. It goes across the span of his back, he can feel it, from his left shoulder blade to the right. Then the second goes a bit below the first one.
He watches her add a hint of violet next, watches as the hair on the brush swish this way and that to create a shade that was drifting on the edge of blues and purple. She lifts her brush then, grabs the tube of titanium white and adds a dollop of it to the mix. Finally, content with the tint she drips her brush and begins the stokes on his back once again. The paint as cool against his skin but he didn't mind too much, instead concentrating on creating a mental image of her strokes she was painting. So far he has understood that the blues and violets and purples were just the background, the strokes going left to right all the way down to his waist. She grabs a smaller sized brush and picks black as her next colour. The fine bristles fill paint into every contour and dip of his pores.
It takes her an hour to complete her masterpiece' and he doesn't have to look to know that is absolutely breath-taking. And maybe that was the beauty of it all, that he can't even see what she has shared with him and yet to know that it would be nothing shy of brilliance.
She announces the end of her project by signing her name on the low right edge of is back and reaches for her phone to capture her art.
It was his turn now-to share a hidden part of himself. So she plays her favourite Italian song, casually takes off the shirt she is wearing, lays herself down, pulling her hair towards the left shoulder and bares her back to him just like that.
"Aisi poetry jo tumhe lagta hai mere liye fit ho." She requests.
He reaches for the black marker among her supplies, licks his lips in deep thought for a good ten minutes and starts.
It takes him three quarter of an hour to finish this:
You were born to be a rainstorm,
To send your voice throughout the night,
To sing your song with falling raindrops,
To break the darkness with your light,
You were born to show raw beauty,
To wash the dirt out from their eyes,
But the whole world ran for cover,
When you opened up your skies,
So you made your thunder silent,
And learnt to bite your rainy tongue,
You gave them what they thought they wanted,
You gave them life with endless sun,
But as they watched their lives grow weaker,
Watched as their leaves turned brown and dry,
They wished they didn't take for granted,
Your booming presence in the sky,
You were born to be a rainstorm,
To be chaotic and be bold,
To show there's beauty in the knowledge,
That you cannot be controlled,
Because you might think you're not needed,
Life without you is the same,
But nothing beautiful would ever grow,
If it wasn't washed with rain.
And this was vulnerability at its finest, Kunj thought, because what he hadn't had the courage to do in 20 years was now spilled in black across her back. And maybe he likes this-this vulnerability, this hidden face of Twinkle. Maybe he likes it a lot,
TO BE CONTINUED...
Well that's the end of this chapter, guys. Hope you all liked it. Please comment and let me know. And poetry credit to its respectful owner, Erin Hanson😊
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