part0025

Of course, he felt like this almost every day. But, now, he was extra aware of how fortunate he was. Ever since the day Meher had told his parents to back off and let Meher and him be, they’d become…grateful. In the bestest of ways. She was grateful when she gave him morning coffee, when they were both at work…at night in the privacy of their bedroom. And he was just plain grateful she was here with him!

Avi grinned because his body remembered how particularly gratifying last night had been.

His phone chirped. It was a Rajni tune, Charlie’s personalized ringtone. The phone rang again. Then cut off before he could pick up. Avi called him back and Charlie did not pick up.

He texted Charlie. Is everything okay? You called?

Charlie didn’t respond for the longest time. When he did it was the last answer Avi expected.

Where are you? Avi replied back.

One hour later, Avi stood in front of a big Victorian building in Kala Ghoda that had ten foot tall standees of Charlie Thomas, portrait artist showcasing his exhibition for a month straight. The exhibition was called Yenn Kudumbam . My family.

Now, Avi was intrigued. As far as he knew, Charlie hated his family. And he wasn’t in touch with any of them, especially after his mother passed away, even though he sent money to his grandfather for his monthly expenses.

That had been an awful time for Charlie. All of seventeen and losing his mother because she’d worked so hard, twice as hard as any other mother to take care of him.

That was the only time Avi had been actively afraid for Charlie. Seeing Charlie bury his mother.

But Charlie had spent the night with him and Meher and Shashi and Anu and he was fine. He’d pulled through. So he would pull through whatever this was too. They would all make sure he did.

Charlie came out, wiping his hands on a red bandana. He was brooding.

“Hey, you got here on time.”

Avi shrugged. “No traffic. What’s wrong with you?”

Charlie shook his head. “I’m sorry I did that. Texted you like that, machaa . I know you wanted to be home with Meher today.”

“You’re home too,” Avi said. “Now what’s wrong with you, Charlie?”

“Nothing. I just have a show to prepare for and nothing is done so far. The welcome display is not even set up yet. And I still have to go over the portraits.”

Avi considered cursing but knew it wouldn’t make a difference. Charlie did not want to talk. So he wouldn’t talk. No amount of prodding would make him talk. The best way to get him to open up was to distract him.

“I could help. I’m good with art stuff.” Avi held up his hands and grinned.

Charlie looked at Avi’s hands and then shook his head again. “Fine,” he said. “You’re hired.”

And that was how Avi was put in charge of stacking two hundred recycled soda cans.

“You could talk to her, machaa .” Avi spoke a few minutes later, as he hefted one more piece of recycled tin can and placed it on the next tier of the Christmas Tree that Charlie was building. It was a welcome to the exhibition piece made from stuff he’d found from all over the country on his travels.

This tin-can was called Rajouri, New Delhi.

Avi placed Patiala, Punjab next to Rajouri as he waited for Charlie to say something. Respond.

Charlie continued on his task – that of hammering the pieces in the exact order he wanted them to be displayed. The main pieces, the crown jewels of the exhibit were a secret, something he particularly didn’t want Avi to see. The others, the outer pieces were already up on the smooth, well-lit, white walls of the gallery in South Mumbai.

He continued hammering nails to hang his covered portraits. Each of it was a five-foot square unframed photograph and came with an equally large description.

Avi cautiously tried to peek under one portrait. He couldn’t.

“Hey! What do you think you’re doing?” Charlie asked.

“I’m trying to see what this photograph is all about,” Avi answered.

“It’s a portrait,” Charlie answered absently.

“Fine. Portrait.” He tried to wrestle with the cloth but it wouldn’t budge. “Have you used glue to stick it shut?”

“No. But I will use this hammer on you if you don’t stop what you’re doing.” Charlie casually held up the hammer he was using to nail the portraits to the wall. “You think Meher will love you with a few broken bones?”

Avi stepped back from the center exhibit so quickly, his sneakers scuffed the plain marble gallery floor. “You’re in a terrible mood for a famous artist.”

“I’m not famous,” Charlie snarled.

Avi pointed at the photograph of Valimma, now blown to a normal portrait size. “This post got three point seven million likes. I counted. You’re famous, Charlie.”

“So? Half of those are bots anyway. My engagement rate could improve.” Charlie shrugged as if it was no big deal. And Avi was beginning to see that maybe Charlie really didn’t care. He really only cared about the work. His art. And the girl he didn’t want to talk about.

“Charlie,” Avi prompted. He continued placing tin cans next to each other on the Christmas Tree. It was actually soothing freeing work. “Talk to me, pa .”

Charlie wiped his sweating face with the bandana around his neck. He didn’t want airconditioning blowing through the room while Avi constructed the welcome display. It was too important to screw up.

“Drop it, Avi,” Charlie said mildly in Tamil.

Avi looked around the gallery. Other helpers and assistants were working from a plan on a tablet, positioning pieces to Charlie’s specifications. “These people don’t speak Tamil?”

Charlie shook his head. “Not a blessed word.”

“So I could curse you and call you a dog if I wanted and no one will know?” Avi grinned evilly.

Charlie didn’t smile or take the bait. And that was when Avi knew. This was serious. It was important. Charlie had a lot of flaws, but he didn’t hide things, important things from the rest of them.

“You know, you can tell me anything, right?”

“I know.”

“So,” Avi began.

Charlie gave him a dead-serious look. “Drop it, Avi. I don’t want to talk about it. Anu isn’t for me. It’s fine. I have learned to live with it.’

“But…” Avi said again.

“Avi,” Charlie snarled as he picked up a nail for the next portrait. “Seriously, man. Stop it. I don’t want to talk about it. Please understand.”

“But, that’s exactly my point,” Avi insisted. “I don’t understand.”

And he couldn’t. When Charlie had told him that morning that he was really the Faces of India guy, Avi hadn’t believed it. Charlie had to show him RAW images on his camera before Avi could.

It was impossible that his best friend, the original rebel, was a brilliant storyteller. It was so cool if it was true.

“I want a smoke,” Charlie said.

“Why? It’s bad for your health,” Avi said automatically.

“Fuck you,” Charlie replied. “Will you stop being the nalla pullai for one second?”

Avi put his hands up. “Alright, machaa . You don’t have to get abusive because I care about your lungs.”

Charlie’s shoulders slumped. “I’m an asshole.”

Avi flung a friendly arm around his shoulder. “When are you not?”

Charlie gave him a weary glance. “I quit smoking last year. Can I punch you instead?”

“Sure.” Avi nodded. “If that will make you feel better. But you could also talk to me.”

“Maybe I don’t want to talk.”

“Then we fight,” Avi said simply.

Of course, he really hoped Charlie wouldn’t take him up on his offer. He was a terrible fighter and he had soft knuckles. And Meher would absolutely kill him if she came to know he was engaging in violence.

Charlie’s shoulders shook with the force of his sigh.

“What do you not understand?” he asked.

“This. All of this. Where did all of this come from, Charlie?”

Avi waved his hand at the covered portraits. Some of them hung, some of them not. He could not, for the life of him, reconcile the friend he knew, part-time wedding photographer Charlie Thomas, with a man who had a full-page ad in Mumbai’s daily tabloid proclaiming his photo exhibit.

“Is this really what you want to ask me, Avi?” Charlie almost smiled.

Avi shrugged. “Yes, actually. You said you don’t want to talk about Anu, even though I didn’t even know you liked Anu. And now you’re sad because you dumped Anu. But I also don’t understand how all of this happened. I mean…I understood it. I am a fan of Faces of India ! But…”

Charlie settled on the front stoop of the gallery next to Avi, who’d stopped building the tree.

He just had a bewildered expression on his face, like when Meher wanted to have ‘serious talks’ with him. He couldn’t understand the need or point of it but he loved her enough to try.

And he did love Charlie enough to try.

“I wasn’t really good at anything when we were kids, was I? Not sports or studies or arts and crafts or anything.” Charlie asked quietly.

Avi shifted his short-clad knees restlessly. He saw the Minnie Mouse socks Meher had gifted him as a gag gift. And he was immensely grateful he had no secrets from the person he trusted the most in the world.

This whole keeping secrets thing was insane. Exhausting.

“It’s okay,” Charlie assured Avi. “I know that. Everyone knows that. I have made my peace with it. Some children are late bloomers. I bloomed at eighteen, as soon as I left that godforsaken town. It killed me inside, Avi.”

Avi’s heart ached at the hurt he heard in Charlie’s voice. He knew it had been bad staying with his grandfather for Charlie but he’d always assumed…no…hoped Charlie would eventually find his place in the family.

“Even you guys didn’t know, not really, how much I needed to leave. I had to become my own person, my own man. And I had no education, no money, no backup. So I had to pick the first job that came my way. I worked out of a portrait studio in Madurai for six months, picked up enough to understand how lighting and composition worked…saved up enough to buy an old digital camera.”