Chapter 22 - CHAPTER 22 - The Day We Painted with Hands Instead of Sense

🌌 CHAPTER 22 - The Day We Painted with Hands Instead of Sense

"Your style?" Shruti signed, her expression etched with confusion.

"Yeah. My style—fast and easy to work with," I signed back, trying to convey both confidence and reassurance.

She gave a slow nod. "Okay."

We were going to use oil or acrylic paint, so the immediate priority was preparing the colors for the massive artwork ahead.

"I'll be back in a few minutes," I signed, giving her a brief glance before leaving the art room.

I walked through the corridor, my eyes scanning for any container large enough to bring water back to the art room. In the end, nothing suitable appeared, so I resigned myself to bringing as much as possible using various bottles.

When I returned to the art room, my arms laden with several plastic bottles, I saw that Shruti had already completed the color preparation. A small, pleasant surprise that saved precious minutes.

I took a white Bristol board sheet and handed it to her so she could place it securely on the wooden dashboard.

Meanwhile, I searched the shelves for the tools of the trade. I found a palette knife, tucked away near the right corner, gleaming faintly in the light. I grabbed it and walked back toward Shruti.

"Are you ready?" I signed.

She nodded, a determined look in her eyes, and signed back, "I'm ready."

I began explaining the plan to her using deliberate, expressive sign language.

To start, we would scoop a mixture of blue and purple paint with the palette knife and apply it to the canvas using soft, sweeping strokes. The very edge of the knife would create textured, impasto marks that were meant to resemble the dizzying movement of stars in a vibrant night sky.

Next, we would mix a slightly lighter shade of blue and block in the majestic bookshelves. Using thick, rectangular strokes with the knife's edge, the shelves would be sharp and defined. But to create a true sense of depth, the shelves needed to be slightly curved, shaped with gentle, sweeping motions.

Once the foundational structure of the shelves was in place, we would shift our focus to the books. We'd use warm, metallic shades—gold, silver, and copper—applying thick, textured strokes. The knife's sharp edge would be perfect for adding intricate, almost magical patterns to the book covers, giving them undeniable depth and detail.

Finally, we would infuse the piece with magical elements—sparkling stars, glowing candles, and a few ethereal fireflies floating between the towering shelves. Each final detail would be created with sharp, controlled movements to give the entire piece a sense of motion and energetic wonder.

"Do you understand?" I signed, waiting for confirmation.

She nodded, then signed back, "I understand, but can you please send me a detailed message? I won't remember everything right now."

"Oh! Sorry," I signed, feeling a small pang of apology for overwhelming her. I quickly typed the entire explanation on my phone, sending the detailed message to her.

Shruti immediately began painting, her movements focused.

As for me, it was finally time to rest. I had been busy the entire night before, and the lack of sleep was catching up.

Mayuri's POV

My name is Mayuri.

I am an art teacher at an art college—a college primarily for rich kids. Once, I was known as a genius, a prodigy, but that was long in the past. Now, there is someone more talented than me, someone who chooses not to use his talent… or perhaps, expertly hides it.

I decided to help a first-year student after discovering her artwork had been ruined intentionally. There were consequences attached to this decision, but I never step back when it comes to helping my students overcome their burdens and achieve their dreams.

I don't want anyone to suffer the way I once did. That is precisely why I became a teacher.

After finishing some light work in the staffroom and arranging the submitted artwork in the locker, I headed back toward the familiar comfort of the art room.

Shruti was already painting on a large white sheet, using oil paints. She had made visible progress, already mapping out a brilliant night sky.

Did they decide to start an entirely new artwork instead of salvaging the old one?

Why? We don't have much time.

I wanted to ask Shruti what her thought process was, but I didn't want to disturb the delicate thread of her focus.

There was someone else I could ask.

I scanned the room and found him—asleep behind the shelves, lying on a makeshift bed he had created from chairs. I walked over and kicked him lightly.

"Wake up!" I commanded.

He fell dramatically to the ground and shouted, "Earthquake! It's an earthquake! Get out—"

Then he looked up, blinking. "Oh… teacher? Why don't you try waking me up by kissing my cheeks?"

"You!" I snapped, my patience thinning, and I immediately grabbed his ear.

"Ow, ow, ow! I'm sorry! Please leave my ear!" he pleaded.

I let go and pulled a chair toward me, sitting down with my arms tightly folded across my chest.

I asked him what was going on, and he quickly explained everything: the new plan, the tight deadline, and the decision to start over.

"How are you planning to manage time?" I asked, raising a skeptical eyebrow. "It's already noon."

He sat up properly, rubbing his ear. He replied, "Teacher, what matters more in a competition—winning first prize, or giving your best?"

"Obviously winning first prize," I said without hesitation. "What's the point of a competition without competitors? It's like cake without sugar."

"Stop reading my mind, teacher," he said with a yawn. "You already know how we'll manage time, don't you?"

"I do," I replied simply. "But I don't know sign language."

"Then learn—"

Before he could finish, I raised my fist, stopping his words mid-air.

"I'll explain it to her," he said quickly, backing down. "Me. Rahul. Your student."

He started to stand up.

"Stop," I said, the command firm. "Let's paint first. Then explain."

"Why?" Rahul asked, annoyed and confused. "I can explain it simply."

"Because I want to," I replied, giving him a small, smug smile.

Rahul went to freshen up while I began preparing the painting materials. As I worked, memories of my college days surfaced—some of the happiest, most unrestrained moments of my life.

When he returned, we didn't waste another second. We began painting with our hands.

Using hands required a certain kind of raw creativity and practice that brushes could never replicate. We painted alongside Shruti, showing her how to cover large areas quickly with the flat of our palms and how to etch finer details using only the tips of our fingers.

Rahul demonstrated new techniques, movements I hadn't even thought of, while I focused on refining the smaller, more complex elements.

Shruti watched us closely, a deep concentration visible as she absorbed everything we did.

Rahul signed something to her—a final encouragement—and she put down the palette knives. Hesitantly at first, she dipped her own hands into the paint and started painting with them.

Whenever she hesitated or looked unsure, either Rahul or I gently guided her forward, a silent, painted communion of three.

As I watched Rahul explain things to her, signing encouragement and technique, I noticed something strange—he seemed momentarily lost in thought, his gaze distant.

"Rahul?" I asked quietly, not wanting to startle him.

"Rahul, what's wrong?"

"Huh?" He snapped back, looking at me.

"Oh… nothing."

We returned to the canvas, continuing to paint until the artwork began to truly live.