The last time she painted was for Mike. She had given him a hand painted T-shirt before he left for his consulting job in a distant city. It was more of a âthink of me every time you wear itâ kind of a gesture.
Within her circle, Malavika was always seen as the artistic one. She was the only girl from her class who would win inter-college competitions. But like most artists, she was a perfectionist. Nothing ever felt quite good enough in her eyes. The brown of the trees always seemed too pale, the yellow in the sun never seemed to shine enough. Often, she would abandon the very idea of creating something before even sketching an outline. Yet her friends kept pushing her to go on, in spite of all the self-doubt she carried.
However after the breakup, her brushes remained untouched. No bright colours in palette, only grey. Painting had always been her way of reaching out, of leaving a little part of herself in the world. But with Mike gone, for quite some time, she kept her canvas blank. Something she once gave as a reminder gift to him,now in retrospect, felt like a farewell gift. The kind that said, you take away some colours from my palette that I know I can never get back.