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Unrolling reality
#WritcoStoryChallenge
The painting was yellowed with rounded edges. It was a masterpiece and it was lying in my hand. “Wait, have I stolen it? I don’t remember ... my memory is drawing a blank, and feels like an abyss, one that I am scared to peer in”,I thought. I collect art, often I straddle the lines between legality and illegality. Looking at my hand, I wondered, “Have I crossed over to the land of grey?” I didn’t think so, but given the current situation, my instincts were akin to hugs in a pandemic. “Where did the painting come from? And why did I have it ? And what in tarnation have I been up to in the last 24 hours?”, I wondered. The mystery, I realized, could be solved by examining myself and my surroundings. I looked down at my hands, my right hand was still holding the folded-up painting. And my left hand had small cuts all over it- not bleeding but looked like, what seemed to be, paper cuts. I kept the painting, gingerly, down, next to me on the floor and examined my right hand. “It is a mirror image of your left hand”, my brain quipped. Even at a time like this, my brain found puns amusing. But jokes, even bad ones, apart, my right hand, too had paper cuts and they were more in number, that the ones on my left hand. Slowly, rising, I looked around if I could figure out where I was. I was in a medium-sized room, with huge windows, curtains drawn, where the sun was shining in, primarily guilty for waking me up. The room had a table, and a chair in its midst, I decided that maybe more could be gleamed (Brain, stop with the puns!) if I investigated them! When I was vertical, I looked down to my feet – they were bare, but not dirty. I walked, unsteadily, to the table and plomped myself on the chair, with a whoosh. The walk, if you can call it that, had tired me out. “What sort of a person am I? Who gets tired by walking seven steps?”, I berated myself. I decided the answer to my already rhetoric question needed no more time wasting, and I looked at the desk in front of me. It was made of wood and had several drawers and a cabinet. Its surface, scarred was bereft of any possessions. Disappointed, I looked at the drawers, and pulled open the top one. Inside, arranged oh-so-neatly were pencils, laid as per their graphite grades, belonging to a brand that I wasn’t aware, and there was a smattering of erasers, and sharpeners. And, nothing else. I shut the drawer, with a disheartened sigh, and opened the one beneath it. It had colour pencils, juxtaposed as per the rainbow. “What a systematic mind”, I thought. Shutting the drawer, with an unnecessary force, I opened the third in the row, and there was a faded photograph of the Eiffel Tower, a yellowing one at that! “The colour suits my mood, right now”, I thought. I brought the photograph closer to my face, squinting at it, to get better details off, of it. The picture was a black and white one, and not of the actual Eiffel tower, but one of a painting of Eiffel Tower. I turned it over and there was something written on the right hand side in a cursive crawl. “Scenic Studios, 1988”, I read it out loud. “What and where is that?”, I puzzled over it, examining it for more clues. There were none, and I put it back in its nesting drawer. I felt the photograph, stirred something familiar in my mind, a whisper of a memory, and like an automaton, I got up from my seat and went to the painting that I had kept on the floor. And I unrolled it. It was a monochromatic painting of the Eiffel tower. The photograph in the drawer was a picture taken of this painting, of course at the time it was taken, the picture had a frame and was hung in some room. “Wow, things get ‘Curiouser and curiouser’ ”, I thought. I returned to the desk, and opened the small cabinet beneath the drawer that held the photograph. It’s innards held the promise of several unspoken secrets, and maybe just maybe I could get a hint… waait! What! It was empty. “Who keeps an empty cabinet?” I thought, angrily, and bending over it, ran my hands over its shelves. My explorer hands encountered something. It was a small palm-sized book. I took it with with wariness and interest, a curious cauldron of emotions. It looked old, really old. And I could feel its papery pages, calling out to me. willing to reveal its secrets, yet hesitant. I opened the book, carefully. The first page was one where the author had written their name and date – it read ‘The Unknown One, 1988’.” I rolled my eyes at that, “What a waste”, I thought, and turned the page. The book seemed to be a diary of sorts. With random entries – the author had not written them in a chronological order, and the entries were haphazard with respect to time. July was followed by May, and then December, and so on. “How can a mind that is so organized in arranging its stationary be so different while writing?” I pondered. “Maybe there are two different people involved? Maybe one of the them is me! Which one would I be? The organized one or the one that is every teacher’s nightmare come to life?”, the answer eluded me. I turned to the last page of the book, hoping it held some answers. The page was blank. The one before it, had some spidery writing on it. I held it closer, tilting it towards the sunlight to get a better look at it. Just then there was a knock at the door, eliciting a dtartled scream (okay, a squeak) from me. I looked up at the door, and a young man stood there, looking expectantly at me. “Sir, the techies are here for the 3.00 pm meeting, Shall I ask them to come in?”. I shook my head with frustration, trying and failing to speed read the second last page, and hearing footsteps, took off my VR glasses, keeping them on my desk, to greet the techies. The second last page read, ‘If you need a better mystery, open up the ante !’
© Natasha Sharma
The painting was yellowed with rounded edges. It was a masterpiece and it was lying in my hand. “Wait, have I stolen it? I don’t remember ... my memory is drawing a blank, and feels like an abyss, one that I am scared to peer in”,I thought. I collect art, often I straddle the lines between legality and illegality. Looking at my hand, I wondered, “Have I crossed over to the land of grey?” I didn’t think so, but given the current situation, my instincts were akin to hugs in a pandemic. “Where did the painting come from? And why did I have it ? And what in tarnation have I been up to in the last 24 hours?”, I wondered. The mystery, I realized, could be solved by examining myself and my surroundings. I looked down at my hands, my right hand was still holding the folded-up painting. And my left hand had small cuts all over it- not bleeding but looked like, what seemed to be, paper cuts. I kept the painting, gingerly, down, next to me on the floor and examined my right hand. “It is a mirror image of your left hand”, my brain quipped. Even at a time like this, my brain found puns amusing. But jokes, even bad ones, apart, my right hand, too had paper cuts and they were more in number, that the ones on my left hand. Slowly, rising, I looked around if I could figure out where I was. I was in a medium-sized room, with huge windows, curtains drawn, where the sun was shining in, primarily guilty for waking me up. The room had a table, and a chair in its midst, I decided that maybe more could be gleamed (Brain, stop with the puns!) if I investigated them! When I was vertical, I looked down to my feet – they were bare, but not dirty. I walked, unsteadily, to the table and plomped myself on the chair, with a whoosh. The walk, if you can call it that, had tired me out. “What sort of a person am I? Who gets tired by walking seven steps?”, I berated myself. I decided the answer to my already rhetoric question needed no more time wasting, and I looked at the desk in front of me. It was made of wood and had several drawers and a cabinet. Its surface, scarred was bereft of any possessions. Disappointed, I looked at the drawers, and pulled open the top one. Inside, arranged oh-so-neatly were pencils, laid as per their graphite grades, belonging to a brand that I wasn’t aware, and there was a smattering of erasers, and sharpeners. And, nothing else. I shut the drawer, with a disheartened sigh, and opened the one beneath it. It had colour pencils, juxtaposed as per the rainbow. “What a systematic mind”, I thought. Shutting the drawer, with an unnecessary force, I opened the third in the row, and there was a faded photograph of the Eiffel Tower, a yellowing one at that! “The colour suits my mood, right now”, I thought. I brought the photograph closer to my face, squinting at it, to get better details off, of it. The picture was a black and white one, and not of the actual Eiffel tower, but one of a painting of Eiffel Tower. I turned it over and there was something written on the right hand side in a cursive crawl. “Scenic Studios, 1988”, I read it out loud. “What and where is that?”, I puzzled over it, examining it for more clues. There were none, and I put it back in its nesting drawer. I felt the photograph, stirred something familiar in my mind, a whisper of a memory, and like an automaton, I got up from my seat and went to the painting that I had kept on the floor. And I unrolled it. It was a monochromatic painting of the Eiffel tower. The photograph in the drawer was a picture taken of this painting, of course at the time it was taken, the picture had a frame and was hung in some room. “Wow, things get ‘Curiouser and curiouser’ ”, I thought. I returned to the desk, and opened the small cabinet beneath the drawer that held the photograph. It’s innards held the promise of several unspoken secrets, and maybe just maybe I could get a hint… waait! What! It was empty. “Who keeps an empty cabinet?” I thought, angrily, and bending over it, ran my hands over its shelves. My explorer hands encountered something. It was a small palm-sized book. I took it with with wariness and interest, a curious cauldron of emotions. It looked old, really old. And I could feel its papery pages, calling out to me. willing to reveal its secrets, yet hesitant. I opened the book, carefully. The first page was one where the author had written their name and date – it read ‘The Unknown One, 1988’.” I rolled my eyes at that, “What a waste”, I thought, and turned the page. The book seemed to be a diary of sorts. With random entries – the author had not written them in a chronological order, and the entries were haphazard with respect to time. July was followed by May, and then December, and so on. “How can a mind that is so organized in arranging its stationary be so different while writing?” I pondered. “Maybe there are two different people involved? Maybe one of the them is me! Which one would I be? The organized one or the one that is every teacher’s nightmare come to life?”, the answer eluded me. I turned to the last page of the book, hoping it held some answers. The page was blank. The one before it, had some spidery writing on it. I held it closer, tilting it towards the sunlight to get a better look at it. Just then there was a knock at the door, eliciting a dtartled scream (okay, a squeak) from me. I looked up at the door, and a young man stood there, looking expectantly at me. “Sir, the techies are here for the 3.00 pm meeting, Shall I ask them to come in?”. I shook my head with frustration, trying and failing to speed read the second last page, and hearing footsteps, took off my VR glasses, keeping them on my desk, to greet the techies. The second last page read, ‘If you need a better mystery, open up the ante !’
© Natasha Sharma
