A/n:
The narrator's a long-forgotten character, a forensic doctor I absolutely adore.
The person whose namesake is that rather elusive smile, is of course Muskaan. I don't exactly ship Vivek and Nyla; just-as mentioned in the story-a few warm sparks.
The setting is not exactly but kind of war-like.
Of Polaroids And Red Streaks
Strange things, photographs.
Fragments of time captured in a polaroid. I mean literally; not just figuratively. Take an old photograph out of it's plastic cover; the crusty edges fading a pale yellow; feel a catch in your throat, a tug in your chest? Nostalgia, people say. Dust of time, trapped in that plastic cover, getting sprinkled on you I say.
Never kept any photographs, myself. Except that one- a girl with red hair, flaming red streaks among jet black hair; a perpetual smile gracing her face. People say they don't believe the girl in the picture is me. Neither do I, frankly.
Maybe she is not even real, this girl with the mostly-red hair. Her eyes have this...this shine in them. The shine that reminds you of the sun blazing in a clear blue sky and of the dandelion in spring. You can't see that in the eyes of people in a war.
I forgot why the girl stopped coloring her hair. Red streaks. My hair is black now.
Middle of war, people lose themselves. Disintegrate, slowly. So quietly, you don't even realize. No one notices the shine in the eyes slipping away. This girl, the girl in the photo, she disintegrated. Became me.
I look at the photo again, the girl that was me. Or at least, I think so. Don't know for sure. The smile hasn't appeared on my face in a while; the one that reaches the eyes. The girl in photo has that smile.
"Horribly conceited to keep photos of only yourself-ugh-damn the bandage" a muffled groan erupts from the infirmary bed. She returned the previous day, taking a bullet in her arm. Fighter, that one is.
"Your namesake's rather elusive on your face, you know?" I say.
She gets up and manages to smile as much as her mouth will allow. "I hope I'm looking like a weasel enough for you to find my namesake on my face"
The white bandage on her arm is soaked in red. That's when I remember. The reason the girl in the photo stopped coloring her hair.
Red streaks. Of blood. So much. You don't need any more red. You see it everywhere around you; cuts and gunshots, like red ink spilled on skin, soaking through the clothes, turning brown.
You don't realize your smiles starting to fade. Don't remember the last time you had laughed.
I saw that girl the other day, the one with red hair.
He had transferred for a few days. The striking hazel eyes, glinting with mirth. We talked a lot. He said he missed me, I think. I don't remember what I'd said exactly, just the warmth that I felt.
Saw the girl in the mirror as I passed one. The eyes shining and all- almost as much in the photograph.
I don't recall why the girl had decided to get the red in her hair in the first place. It wasn't even her favorite color. Perhaps, because it had seemed vibrant.
A good enough reason. I wonder sometimes if I'll ever paint those vibrant hues again. Perhaps not.
That girl is lost somewhere; the girl in the photograph. Well, maybe not lost. She is just somewhere. Couldn't keep up on the way to disintegration. Hid in the photo where her hair always sports the red streaks and the smile reaches her eyes.
I feel too numb to return to the girl in the polaroid. Have seen too much of the war and have been cooped up for long in the forensic lab. Ages, for eons, even. Surrounded by lifelessness (literally that one) and red streaks. Of blood, this once.
Somebody passes by; a red gash on the side. Bullet wound. "Ice-cream. Trust me, all I need is some vanilla ice-creme and I'm gonna be fine!" the person beside tries a faint laugh and then chokes on the sobs.
I think there was vanilla ice-cream for everyone that afternoon.
Saw him again. The mirth in his hazel irises replaced by a ghastly stupor. Someone on their team had fallen. The new girl, with curly black hair? It was like looking into a mirror to see him; seeing the lost look in your eyes reflecting back.
He was babbling something unintelligible. I looked at his hands; fiddling like crazy, cracking his knuckles at a maniacal speed. He was staring hard at his shoes. "I never got to tell her, you know?" frantic head shaking. I nodded my head.
What he didn't get to tell her, I don't know. Probably never will. Maybe he wanted to tell her about a prank he had in mind. Maybe he wanted tell her that he loved her. I wanted to tell him his shoelace was untied. I don't think I said anything.
Or maybe I did; told him she'd scold him for being so careless that he forgot to tie his own shoelaces. I think he smiled, I don't really remember.
Saw the familiar glint in his eyes for a millisecond, as he smiled at his shoes again.
A part of us goes away; that's how it's lost. The shine in the eyes, I mean. The heart breaks sometimes. Feel a pinch where the rib cage is located, forget to look at the setting sun, the sky turning a brilliant magenta. Swallow the things we want to say.
I did that too; I'm sure. The blank-look thing. Getting lost; I still am, I think. Lost. Too dazed to recognize the girl in the photograph. The one with the smile and red-streaks.
Someone's called me. I am needed at the lab. I go, putting the photo inside the pocket of my jeans.
Maybe that's the reason, after all. Why we keep the polaroids. To freeze the time; to keep a part of ourselves in it. To get the dust particles of time to work their magic on us. Could be because we don't want to lose ourselves, perhaps.
I wear the white coat on my way to where I'm called. Not because I'm supposed to or anything; I just like to stuff my fists in the pockets of the coat. There's a candy wrapper in one of them from gods-know-when.
She took two more gunshots. Gods, that girl is dead set to check her capabilities to take bullets. Smiles as soon as she sees me, "Namesake check?"
I laugh. After a time period fit to be called just long enough. Another gruesome week at the forensic. Too much time among chemicals and morbidity and the white, cold walls.
Silence. Sunlight pours in through the window of the infirmary, turning her hair a golden brown. I know mine looks the same way. It's all of a sudden, out-of-the-blue-all-of-a-sudden I miss the red-highlights. Miss the girl with the red hair-mostly red among the black.
The candy wrapper reflects a million specks of golden light as it catches the sun rays. I rustle the plastic, and the dots of light move. She tries to catch the light in her hand. It takes a while to recognize the glinting sound in the room; a sound that seems like a myth. Gleeful laughter.
I recognize myself in that picture. The smiling girl, the vibrant red streaks in my hair.
"We need something to hold onto, Nyla"
Her hair is disheveled and she doesn't bother to tuck the loose strands behind her ear. They hang in front of her eyes as she absently tugs at the hem of her jeans near her ankle.
"Polaroids, shoelaces, anything" I must have quirked my eyebrow; she notices it and explains that she'd met him, "he said your shoelace was untied, too" she pauses for a moment; I smile. Blowing a stray strand out of her face, "you know what? It took two bullets in my arm for me to realize that I totally need to get red-highlights in my hair. I think the red in your hair looks vibrant" she states.
"Vibrant" I agree, "and totally cool"
Trying to remember yourself is weird. Mostly because it takes a while to realize that you had been lost. Little things, scattered, come to your mind (oh yes, I used to like that shade of the gerbera flower) that you'd forgotten. I doubt it's actually forgotten; just shoved to the back of your mind, I guess. Then, untied shoelaces and the red highlights help. The polaroids are the best, though; freezing time and all.
We took a a picture of ourselves that day, I think. Disheveled black hair, perpetual smiles on our faces. A picture before we get the red streaks in our hair, she said.
I don't really remember if we did get the vibrant highlights afterwards. Maybe we did. I think I have that photograph.
A/n:
Did not get the story? I can understand.
Got the story? You're just as sane as I am.