Guldastaa

The art gallery buzzed with soft murmurs and clinking glasses. It was the final day of Shounak Sarkar's grand exhibition-an event that had drawn critics, collectors, and admirers from across the country.

Shounak Sarkar wasn't merely a painter. He was a legend in his own right-one of India's greatest living artists. In his late fifties, he had a lean frame, an unreadable expression hidden beneath a salt-and-pepper beard, and a pair of eyes so piercing they seemed to look right through people.

He was more than just an artist. A sculptor, a writer, a philanthropist, and a relentless social worker-his identity stretched far beyond the canvas. Smart, successful, and influential, Shounak was a name people didn't just recognize-they revered.

Today, most of his works bore red stickers-sold, in crores. The exhibition had been a resounding success. And for the closing ceremony, Shounak himself was going to be present.

All eyes would be on him.

Arya Bose stood tucked away in the farthest corner of the gallery, silent and still, his gaze fixed on a single painting.

A girl-barely a teenager-stared back at him from the canvas. Her eyes glistened with unshed tears, but it wasn't sadness alone. There was something more: anger, defiance, perhaps even betrayal. Arya, a psychologist by profession and an art enthusiast by soul, had spent his life reading emotions. But this-this was beyond his understanding.

What was it that drew him here day after day? Her pain? Her rage? Her voiceless story? He couldn't tell.

The painting was one of the few that hadn't been sold. Not because it lacked brilliance-but because it was priced far beyond what most could afford. Arya hadn't even entertained the thought of buying it. To own that piece, he would have to be born again, work ten lifetimes, and earn ten times more than he did now.

Still, for fifteen days straight, he had come here. Just to look at her.

He had considered approaching Shounak Sarkar-the man behind the masterpiece. But what could he possibly say? He was nobody. Just another admirer. And Shounak wasn't known for indulging ordinary men in conversation. Especially not ones without name, fame, or money.

So Arya stayed where he was. In silence. Watching her. Trying to understand what her eyes were screaming.

A soft chime echoed as the gallery door opened again, followed by a hush that spread like ripples on still water. Shounak Sarkar had arrived.

He moved through the crowd like smoke-quiet, composed, unreadable. People greeted him with reverence, some with hesitation, and others with sheer awe. He acknowledged them with the barest of nods, his gaze scanning the room as if searching for something that hadn't yet revealed itself.

Arya's heartbeat stumbled. For a moment, he considered slipping out.

But then-something shifted.

Shounak's eyes locked onto his. Just for a second.

Arya didn't know what gave him the strength, but his feet began to move, slowly, uncertainly, toward the master. A thousand thoughts swirled in his head. What if he said the wrong thing? What if he sounded foolish?

Still, he stopped a few feet away from Shounak. His voice came out lower than he intended, but it held firm.

"That painting-the girl with the tear-streaked face... I've been coming here every day just to look at her. I don't know why."

Shounak turned to him fully now, studying him with those eyes that seemed to peel layers off your soul.

For a moment, he said nothing. Then, with a calm, even voice, he spoke, "Most people look at her and walk away. You stayed."

Arya swallowed. "I couldn't leave."

A ghost of a smile played on Shounak's lips-not warm, not cold. Just... knowing.

"She was never meant to be sold," Shounak said. "She's waiting for someone who understands her silence. You may not know it yet, but you've been having a conversation with her."

Arya blinked, stunned.

For the first time in days, he looked back at the painting-and felt her eyes soften.

Arya didn't know what to say. Something unspoken passed between them-something that made the crowded gallery blur at the edges.

Shounak took a slow breath and turned back to the painting. "She was real," he said, voice barely above a whisper. "Long ago. Before the awards, before the auctions... before I became who they think I am."

Arya's gaze snapped to him. "She was someone you knew?"

Shounak nodded faintly. "Someone I failed."

The weight of those words hung in the air like smoke.

"I painted her from memory. Not to sell. Not for glory. Just to keep her with me," he added, his voice rougher now, as though the past still scraped against his throat. "And yet... you kept returning to her. You don't know why. But your eyes carry the same questions she once asked me. You remind me of her."

Arya's voice was quiet. "I thought I was imagining things. The connection."

"You weren't.

Shounak turned to face him, and for the first time, the artist didn't seem like a myth carved out of marble. He looked human. Tired. Haunted.

"I don't often talk to strangers," he said. "But perhaps you're not one."

Arya stood frozen-half in awe, half unsure of what had just shifted in his world.

Then Shounak stepped closer to the painting, and without looking back, said, "Come to the studio tomorrow. Noon, I'd like to have a cup of coffee with you, if you fancy."

With that, he left.

Arya stood motionless, the noise of the gallery fading into a distant hum. His eyes returned to the girl in the painting, her sorrow now somehow more palpable, more personal.

But Shounak hadn't truly left.

From across the room, the artist watched him-his gaze sharp, unforgiving. His expression, still unreadable to the untrained eye, now twisted subtly beneath the surface.

So it begins again, he thought bitterly.

Years had passed since anyone had dared to enter that sacred space within him-her space. His muse. His guilt. His Guldastaa. And now this... boy.

Shounak's jaw clenched as he observed Arya-early thirties, maybe. The cut of his coat spoke of refined taste, not wealth. A man who dressed for self-respect, not status. The quiet stillness in his stance, the weight behind his gaze-he wasn't just an admirer. He was someone who felt. That was dangerous.

He probably teaches. Literature, maybe. Psychology. Or writes things people actually read. He carries grief well, Shounak noted. Like someone who's trained his demons to sit quietly in public.

And that made him a threat.

No one had come this close in years. No one had dared understand her the way Arya just had.

Shounak's hand curled into a fist behind his back. He had spoken words he never intended to say. Offered more than he should have. But now-now he regretted it. This man had stirred something he'd buried deep beneath layers of canvas and fame.

He couldn't let it happen.

She wasn't for anyone else. Not to be understood. Not to be claimed. Especially not by a stranger with earnest eyes and a mind too curious for its own good.

Never.