THE WHO?

BY: Chills Ivad Cobarrubias

Who was he? He was just one among hundreds at school. There wasn’t anything
distinguishing or mighty about him – he was good-looking all right but it was the kind of
good looks that stands out at first and then fades into the background after a while; as if it
had been there for all eternity. In short, he was an ordinary boy leading an ordinary life. He
wasn’t popular among his peers except maybe for his first few days at school which was
one month after term began. He knew everyone and everybody knew him and that was that.
After all, what was one boy among so many others?

Who was he? He was a quaint black and white photograph. A ready dimpled smile, a pair of
deep searching eyes, a mop of messy hair and to complete the picture you needed an easel
with a canvas on it near him, a palette in his left hand and a paintbrush in the right. No one
knew much about his likes or dislikes and frankly no one bothered to ask. But one thing
about which everyone was on the same page was that he was born to paint. He wouldn’t be
complete without the – preferably – green streak of paint which his hand leaves in its wake
in a futile attempt to get the tumbling mass of dark bangs out of his eyes. It could be 6 a.m.
or 6 p.m.; you wouldn’t find him without paint spread randomly on his hands, smudges of
colors on his face or dried smears on his sleeves and patches on his jeans. It was an
irrevocable part of him. The sagacious aura about him and the contrasting impertinence
profound in his ever smiling face vanishes the moment he gets a paint brush in his hands.
His countenance radiated magnanimity and unbelievable passion when he painted.

It was a marvel – the indescribable grace with which his hand flew across the canvas, the
deft stroke of his hands, true and sure against the stark contrast of white in the backdrop. It
was with the utmost confidence that he painted the bold reds and the pale pinks, warm
yellows and cool blues, calm greens and vibrant purples… Upon closer inspection you can
appreciate the sharp details and the accurate strokes, appropriate shading and expert
shadows. Some of his paintings were fairly straight forward- blooming flowers, crashing
waves, looming mountains and towering skyscrapers. Some were more allegory – a haze of
colors, the meaning of which was oblivious to all except him. They were all beautiful in their
own separate ways and the adoring way in which his lips wrapped tenderly around the
usually silly names of his masterpieces and the glow in his dark chocolate orbs as he
looked at them only added to their charm.

He was neither a friend nor a best friend to one. He was simply meant to be. With a
character that was smooth and warm and capable of easily familiarizing with the personality
of his acquaintance. Never was he judgemental He was a constant friend; Like a diary. You
don’t hate him nor do you love him but essentially, he is there by your side. What else could
be the reason he was never appreciated duly for what he was worth? It was almost like he
was meant to be; something naturally there.

Even still, when all of a sudden, he barged into the class one boring English period and
announced that he would be leaving, it was met by apathetic shrugs which were too mild.
On his part, he too seemed indifferent except for the strange emotion shining through the
hard pool of placidity in his eyes and the absence of his signature whimsical smile which
usually graced his lips. The deadline came and he left with a wave of his hand, a grin in our
direction and a slight inclination of his head to acknowledge our lazy goodbyes. But again,
his façade was undoubtedly marred by that eerie light behind his eyes.

Days flew by with no perceivable change and then the rifle was reported triggering the
beginning of a saga of confusion. He became a seat left out in the conference room by a –
later, very bewildered- classmate, an extra question paper at every exam, an awaited
disgruntled groan when art class was cancelled, a subtle glance at a vacant seat when the
teacher spoke about medieval arts, an additional mars bar at every birthday, an irrelevant
invitation to every party. It was all inevitable.

That was when we learned the truth of the words: we don’t know what we have until we lose
it. Like many unfortunates, it was too late for us; Too late to say sorry for all the times you
knocked over his paint, thank you for the paint stained helping hand which seemed to
appear magically in front of you when you tripped during gym, a nod of acceptance or
perhaps even a reply to every routine good mornings, a heartfelt congratulation as he walks
back to his place amidst admiring albeit also lukewarm applause after being announced the
winner of a painting contest for the umpteenth time.

Who was he? A pang in the heart when you skip his name during attendance, a tear in the
eye when you see your school album, a smirk on the lips when you reminisce about the all
jokes you played on the teachers, a confused sweep of the head when you try to seek him
out to ask- as was routine – his calculus exam marks, a droop of the shoulder when you
realize you won’t be playing soccer with him anymore, a soft feeling in your soul when you
see a painting.

A phone call with no answer, that ends in a beep, a message with no reply even at the end
of many a week, a mail with no response no matter how long you wait. A foggy picture
constantly at the back of your mind.

Who was he? Oh, he was just a boy. The last piece of the puzzle. He was a part of us.