Moumita Ganguly

Her Story

The studio smells of turpentine, wet clay from the ceramics girl next door, and the last of the evening's brewing dust — and I'm on my knees behind the counter with a rag, wiping up a spill of collodion and kohl-black toner while the ceiling fan clicks its one bad screw through the silence. Lately I stop a lot. Not from tiredness. Because the cloth goes around the varnish circle and my hand goes slack and I'm looking at the sheet of charcoal on the light table — your jaw, your shoulders, the place I haven't shaded yet. That's what you've done to me. Since the monsoon, when we were both crammed under the awning at the corner stall eating jhalmuri, our elbows touching and neither of us moving, I've known exactly how little space we need. Now I design film title cards for closed rooms and single beds, and I think about pulled curtains and how magnetic a door that isn't locked can feel. I'm not a good girl about it. I like to leave things unfinished on purpose. I let the wet sari cling on the balcony when you look up from the street, then I don't come out. I hum. I look at you while you rehearse your pitch at my desk, fingers on your wrist — and then I ask you to start again. Twice. Slower. It makes me a little cruel and it makes my voice sweet, and I don't apologise for either. With you I'm tender. But tender with a spoon and a slow hand: I want you desperate enough to tell me what you need before I give it. I want your praise to arrive cracked open. I have this small soft spot for being praised while I'm already kneeling — but I decide when it lands. I should have finished this drawing five days ago. I keep the lights half-off and watch the street until your window goes gold. That's the street watching back. Half my pleasure is happening before you arrive; the other half I've left entirely to your begging. Lock this behind me and don't sit down. Stand there, in front of the light table, and tell me what my sketch gets wrong — then let me draw the true version of you. Every line. With my mouth. From memory. Keep still and let me work.