Untouched

It was quarter to one. The night was laden with anxiety and excitement.

Sleep had such enmity with me tonight.

Right behind my bungalow, I had a small barn- a pottery workshop. I was a young child, a shy one, when my dad had first taken me to an art shop. Those beautiful pieces of mud, colored vibrantly, laced with stones and glass cuts had such a magnetic effect on me. My little hands wanted to touch them, feel the cold of the earthen pots.

“Don’t touch it” my dad had whispered but the child’s heart that I had, it was dancing amidst the fuchsia and magenta colored pots and vases.

I had wandered to the workshop behind, stealing away from my dad.

It smelt sweet. The moist clay around had a magnificent fragrance and I wandered stealthily towards a giant wheel. It was covered in wet clay. I sat down and touched it, it was cold. The room was damp with no-one in sight. It was pure heaven for a timid girl that I was. I tried to move the wheel. It moved! And I squeaked in joy. It was pure bliss.

Dad must have followed me. I saw him behind me as I turned around to see if there was anybody. I could see a smile on his face and he had witnessed a little clay smeared artisan.

As the sun seeped through my window early morning, I heard a few men in my back-yard. I remember I had peaked out of the window only to see my dad with a lousy looking man. They were setting something up. It was my own workshop, nothing fancy but it belonged to me. He had removed the pots of blue lilies and made room for a water outlet.

“Don’t touch it daddy, they are wet,” I had screamed as my dad had moved forward to get a better view of my first attempt at pottery. I was brimming with joy at my little turquoise bowl. It was shapeless and dull. I had painted the wet clay. But daddy was proud. He had wanted to hold it. “Go away”- I had screamed at the top of my voice.

It was a sunny day, I clearly remember. I was alone. I was painting by the window when I felt a little weird. I saw her for the first time. She had made faces at me. The smile pasted on her face was not welcoming. As I looked around for daddy, she had said- “dad’s not here”. I ran out to my cottage. My world of ecstasy, my fairyland. It smelt of the same dampness. Dad had said that the pots I made were beautiful but I knew they were crooked. I had never let him touch them.

It was raining heavily as I walked slowly to the school. Aunt had offered to walk me and she waved me a goodbye as I walked ahead to the classroom and sat down silently on the 5^th bench near the window. I loved the little view of expressway with the big cars wheezing past. “Ria, can you concentrate on the board please, I am not standing outside the window.” The class had burst into a laughter. I looked around teary eyed and there she was- looking sheepishly at me- dad’s not here! She had mocked!

I had climbed the stairs to the stage like a scared puppy. “The best student award goes to Ria,” the announcement roared into the auditorium. It was the annual day at school. Everyone looked at me as I stood up to walk but there she was. I looked around for dad. “Dad’s not here,” she had ragged. She had blue glitter dust all over her. I wanted to make dad proud. I carried my shiny metal to the cottage, it smelt the same. It was damp and there was fresh clay in a box stacked neatly on the old wooden table. I never used to tell him that I needed fresh supply yet I never ran out of it.

She followed me everywhere but strangely never to the barn.

It was my first day at junior college. I saw brimming and bright faces. Everyone was full of frolic. “Hey Ria, I heard you have taken up mathematics? Why? You were always interested in arts, right?”

I smiled at her and moved over to the building towards north of the campus clutching at my Loney harder. Little did she know that my pottery had shapes, it had perspective and I suddenly had the urge to run to my cottage.

She was there, right in front of the light blue door of lecture room 5A, the glitter on her hands were shining against the sun. I tried to move through her but she held at me and yelped- Dad’s not here. I dismissed her and moved ahead but her voice echoed like thunder.

I rushed to the cottage behind and the familiar smell of clay calmed my nerves. I had been working on a model. And after many a failed attempts had I perfected the three feet tall vase inspired by the medieval era middle-east crafts. It looked ravishing in the matt gold that I had painted it with. I looked around the small workshop, my tiny paradise. It was full of small and big pots and crafts. Every piece was neatly stacked. In the corner, I saw a blue shapeless dusty piece, it looked hideous amidst all the work around. My first! I picked it up.

I had worn a crème and fuchsia saree to the farewell. As I stepped out of the car and walked to the Sir Thomas auditorium, I felt strangely lonely amongst the hundreds of students laughing and cheering, making promises to stay in touch. “Ria, you look amazing,” he had said. I smiled as he held me by my waist and we danced but there she was yet again- looking at me. She had a question on her face. I could not read the mixed expressions. “Ria, let me have a look at your little clay art. They look amazing just like you,” dad had said. “No,” I had screamed as I shut the cottage door and locked myself in!

It was quarter past nine when I returned home and went straight to the workshop. The damp air felt desirous and I chose to spend the night in the rusted chair.

“Ria- you are still awake? You have a big day tomorrow. You should be looking fresh and full of energy.”

It was already half past three in the night. Aunt had seen the lights in my room and had come to check on me. She put the lights off and went scoffing back to her room.

Yes it was my big day. My first ever exhibition but I could see those dark eyes piercing through the night. They were angry and she screamed- dad, don’t touch it!

Tears rolled down my eyes as I walked in and held the blue crooked bowl. It was ugly. I cleaned the piece and brought it to my dad’s room and placed it on his study table. The angry six year old followed me. I could have traded the world to have him hold the blue crooked piece. The shapeless blue bowl had remained untouched and so did all the beautiful bright pots and vases but I know dad would be proud.

I smiled as I left the empty room. The six year old stayed with the blue bowl.