Lut Gaye || لٹ گۓ

TWENTY SIX | I Am With You

"aankh uthi mohabbat ne angrayi li."

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"A holy sinner's painting."

Iman whispered; her shining, awe-filled irises hooked on a particular canvas hung on the most splendidly curated wall of the Awan residence.

She stood in the wide hallway on the first floor, illuminated by the natural light pouring through the black framed windows installed on either corner of the grand wall but the focal point was the space between them, riddled with an eclectic mix of unique frames depicting abstract figures, landscapes and calligraphy.

Iman loved this space. It was like a mini art gallery.

"Holy sinner?"

A sudden query fell onto her aural in the silvery voice of her mother-in-law and when she veered her head to the right, she came across her lissome figure standing right next to her.

Wearing a mink coloured kameez with collar neck, paired with striped trouser and her light-brown hair tied into a bun, Fatma Awan peered at her with a look of curiosity.

"One of the titles given to Sadequain," Iman answered softly. "It's a Sadequain painting, right?"

The underlying certainty in her tone made her mother-in-law quirk an impressed brow.

"How could you tell? He rarely signed his art and this is one of his rarely seen artworks. I bought it in 2008, from an auction in Dubai."

"Because of the dark and flagrant mixture of colours," Iman stated, turning her head as the grey of her eyes collided with the rebellious strokes of black and red again.

She continued;

"The unapologetic and metaphorical lines. His art speaks, or rather howls of the torture and injustice in the world and his own personal suffering. There's always a conversation going on in his canvases."

Wowed by her construe of the renowned artist's renderings, Fatma mutely stared at her daughter-in-law for a long moment before a curious glint leapt in her eyes and she asked;

"Iman, do you also paint?"

"Sometimes." A feeble whisper.

"Well, then something is telling me you must be very good at it."

Unfastening her eyes from the painting, Iman let them descend over the dark-eyed woman who was peering at her with a warm, gentle smile.

"I don't know about that but if my mother were alive, she would've agreed with you." A little smile glided on her own lips as she mumbled on, "She used to tell me I might have my father's eyes but I have her artistic hands."

"So she was also a painter?"

"Mhm." She nodded, profound shade of fondness lighting her face. "But she was more into sketching. She liked pencils more than brushes."

"And what about you?" Fatma asked keenly.

"I like to play with all mediums of art."

"That's wonderful," her mother-in-law appreciated and then beckoning to her left, she said, "You see that space over there? I think the next painting I hang there should be painted by you, what do you say?"

"M-Me?" she stuttered, nervousness bleeding into her tone.

"Won't you?" Fatma prodded with a tilt of her head―a look of expectancy crossing over her porcelain features.