The promise

The garden is enveloped in soft, delicate tones. Gentle green lines form cozy arches, inviting tranquility into this corner. Pink flower petals dance in the air, twirling on a light breeze, creating a sweet, fragrant cloud. Beams of light penetrate through the leaves, casting gentle glimmers on the ground. Basu stood in the garden in front of the easel, surrounded by a kaleidoscope of blossoming flowers. Her bust, framed by this floral ensemble, rose gracefully with each stroke on the canvas. The brush in her hands, like a magical wand, meticulously depicted every stem and yet-to-blossom bud. Most importantly, she breathed life into the canvas before her, just as she did into people enchanted by her art. From behind, the sound of branch crunching signaled someone approaching, but she didn’t take her eyes off the painting. “Squirrel, is that you?” she asked with a quiet exhale, adjusting an errant stroke on the canvas. Divya, standing behind her, affectionately adjusted Basu’s sari. Saraswati’s focused, creatively inspired gaze shifted to the guest’s gentle hands resting on her shoulders. “I need advice, Lady Basu,” the girl bowed her head. Saraswati already knew the reason and listened in silence. “I remember your words: 'Marriage is a political alliance. Do you want to be faithful to just a partner, a chosen one? What are the chances of loving someone picked by parents out of dry calculation? ' I am confused and, more than ever, understand the meaning of what you said.” Surrounded by the palms of both hands like a boat, Sara placed lavender. The scent of essential oils extracted from this plant wouldn’t hurt her state of mind. “Lord Christian. This alien name irritates me no less than his surname next to your name, Divya. I said a lot back then: 'If I had a husband… I would kill him! '” Basu laughed. “But Di, these are conventions; many marry for their own purposes. I still haven’t accepted and won’t accept Mother’s decision, but you, Divya, give me a promise.” Having spent all these days in anticipation, she could no longer contain her anxiety about the unknown. She needed to hear the bride’s opinion, even if the word tasted bitter on Sara’s lips. Only she had the right to embrace her, not de Clair. “I want to remember you as happy as ever, little Lady Sharma. It seems like you’re missing here among these flowers. Help me finish this painting, just sit down.” Divya straightened up, and only now, as if squeezing a smile for the entire day, she let it blossom as a gift for the meeting with Basu. It flattered Lady Basu because, at that moment, she realized that Lord wouldn’t see her as happy with sparkling eyes, even if he brought all of Bengal, and maybe all of India, to her feet. This smile was meant only for Saraswati, who tenderly fixed her hair with one hand while the other held her. “Have you been holding lavender for an hour already? Even from your hands, it’s pleasant,” Sara winked and ran her index finger along the girl’s nose. The pink paint from her fingertip imprinted on Divya’s nose. “Hey!” Devi protested, grabbing her hand. She took the paint and pressed Lady Basu against the tree. The girls playfully smeared paint wherever they pleased until both fell to the ground. Golden rays pierced through the tree canopy, shining directly into gray eyes. In that moment, Saraswati seized Divya’s wrist, tickling her sides. Chestnut long hair shimmered against pale flowers. “I give up!” she laughed. The artist observed Sharma on the ground, surrounded by dozens of white tuberoses. The smiling girl against this backdrop was precisely what she needed. Inspired, she asked the model not to move, capturing a pose that would become eternal in her memory and on the canvas. “Your clothes got dirty, but I have an idea,” Divya said. She bared her shoulder, shoulders, and even reached thorax. Both were a bit embarrassed, and Sara thought she might be crossing a line, but Divya handed her a tuberose. “Let’s cover the places up to the clavicles with these. And then, draw whatever you think is appropriate on my neck.” She nodded approvingly and brushed the canvas with her brush. The further she went, the more her subconscious played tricks on her, making it seem as if the brush was gliding not on canvas, but on the delicate skin of Mistress Sharma. This image surfaced with every blink, and Sara strived to push away any distracting thoughts. There was something intimate for her in this, although the model was not actually nude. “So, what promise, Saraswati?” The artist didn’t immediately switch to reality and immersed herself further into her work. After a minute of silence, she answered, still not diverting her attention from the painting. “Promise me that you will always be like this. That it’s just a political marriage, and your attitude towards us won’t change. That you will come to this garden every week. Promise, Divya, that these titles won’t mean anything, that this name won’t break you. That you will forever remain Lady Sharma. Promise, my little bunny…” Saraswati quietly wiped away the approaching tears and, to some extent, was calm that the model didn’t see her in this state behind the canvas. Without much thought, the emotionally touched Divya rose and approached her from behind, embracing her waist. These hugs were needed by both. “I promise, Sara,” she leaned her head on her shoulder. “Nothing will change me. And no one. Otherwise, I’ll 'poison him with tea' myself.” The girls laughed.