Chapter 3 | Her Resplendent Face (with audio)

Portrait in Words | Mumtaz Hussain

The Alphabet of the Image | Mumtaz Hussain’s short stories with paintings

Posing nude for a Zahoor painting was a privilege, an event for any woman. A complete portrait reflects the heart’s innermost emotions, pain, and wisdom interpreted onto the rough surface of the canvas. 

Zahoor had yet to paint that portrait, which could be the key to his soul. He searched for himself; his secrets and desires lay deep inside him, but he couldn’t reach them. Zahoor had painted many beautiful faces, yet that wasn’t enough for him. He felt empty inside. Beauty alone didn’t quench his thirst. He wanted a look in which he could see his true self. He wanted to feel alive, content, and perhaps even complete. He wanted a face that would pull at his heartstrings and change the monotonous heartbeat to which he had become immune. Zahoor wanted to feel life fully. 

Today, Suzan Velonsky, the most beautiful woman in the world, sits before him. She has broken many hearts and enjoys torturing his friends’ bodies somewhat sadomasochistic ally. As usual, she is high on heroin. Her scantily clad photo cover for Cosmopolitan Magazine has set many a heart beating. While the whole world is dying over her divine beauty, she is dying for Zahoor. All this stimulates his creative mind and engenders magic sparks from his conical finger. Whoever stares at his paintings will turn into a stone statue. 

Today, as usual, Suzan’s high on ecstasy. Absorbed, Zahoor stares at her naked body, starting with her moonlike face. Upon this perfect circle of a look are perched the two perfect circles of her eyes, a circle’s distance between the two. Under these round eyes lie the rounded arches of her cheekbones and the small convex semicircle of her lips. Below them were her slender neck, and between her two round shoulders, the bowl-like circles of her soft breasts. And in the center of the tummy sits her raisin-like navel. But when Zahoor emerges from his imaginative trance, he examines the canvas and finds a single circle. Deep in thought, Zahoor gazes at this circle. He has seen magnificently attractive women. And has been streaked by the visual appeal of the moon, sun, and earth. They convince him that the most splendid form in the world is a circle. The circle is proportionate from all sides and evenly connected to its core center. It is a complete shape in itself. 

But Zahoor was in search of his soul, his purpose. He marvels at the exquisiteness of Suzan’s naked body. It reads like a sermon for his masterwork. He is still searching for his soul. This leaves only a simple circle on the canvas, continually encircles his eyes. However, there’s no way yet to enter the circle. It is sealed shut like the gates of a fort upon the kettledrum’s announcement on a night. Zahoor’s anxiety keeps him distressed and perplexed throughout the night; he hopes that either Muezzin’s call for prayer or the first ray of the sun might rouse the watchman to open the deadbolt of the gate to let Zahoor enter.

Nonetheless, the gates remained closed. (He was shouted out) After waking up from her intoxicated coma, Suzan sees Zahoor arguing with his canvas. Upon looking at the canvas, she could not understand it, and Suzan started crying and cried out, “I’m not beautiful!” 

 Zahoor tried to convince her that only magnificent beauty would yield the perfect Circle. “It’s because you are total beauty.” Suzan was pleased to hear his praise, but she still didn’t understand his aesthetic. She was cheered that such a well-known artist praised her.

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After this, Zahoor stopped painting and locked up his studio. In his heart, he no longer desired to paint. His inspiration had fled. His mind was on gridlock, where beauty once flourished, where youthful passion rained. Gradually, his life’s savings ended up breaking. Suzan offered to help, but his swollen pride wouldn’t let him accept. He knew no other profession nor wanted to do any additional work. While strolling downtown and feeling financial distress, one day, he came across a few tattoo shops near Astor Place. He was fascinated by their shades and the colorful paintings on the body’s canvas. With a needle screwed into a tattoo-making gun, the color would fill up the naked body at the cost of oozing blood. It was like shedding blood and tears over his incomplete, projected masterpiece. As he watched this new process, excitement took over. He discovered pleasure in pain. The experience of agony blended with ecstasy seemed to compensate for his sense of failure. It was the price of a minor satisfaction, whereas sweet pain is not such a bad deal. Achieving the look of beauty at the cost of saccharine pain might be a worthwhile endeavor. He inquired of the store owner, who demanded some experience. Zahoor told him he was a creative artist willing to learn the art of tattooing bodies. The store owner hired him on the condition that he knew without pay. Zahoor enthusiastically accepted and, in no time, became a master of this trade. 

Suzan continued to live with him. She earned a whole year’s rent in a single day. Always on ecstasy or heroin, she would sleep all day and visit the most expensive bars at night. Wealthy people paid any price in jewels or gifts to be in her company. Wealth, fame, and beauty were her handmaids. Suzan’s attractive and magical image sold many products through eye-catching ads in prominent magazines. But her breathtaking beauty was just an ornate goblet for Zahoor, another ornament on the shelf above his fireplace. One neither filled with liquid nor dry, yet holding the fragrant jasmine of his soul.

One day, one of Zahoor’s friends got an infection from a tattoo on his back. Zahoor went to the hospital to visit him but, by mistake, ended up in the ward for Craniofacial Anomalies. It was a strange, new place to him. So, he asked just what craniofacial anomalies were. The nurse explained: “Anomaly” meant “abnormal.” And “Craniofacial” refers to the head and facial bones. Human beings who are afflicted look different from most others. Zahoor thanked her and left the hospital, only to come upon an Indian girl with an unusual face. The circle of her left eye was hollow, broken, and incomplete as it stretched downwards. There was a gap between her nose and lips like an unstitched wound that had healed on its own. Her face was an incomplete circle, which protruded from a whopping bump.

Zahoor’s heart knocked at his soul’s door. “Here’s a beauty whose doors are wide open. Doing her portrait would help me meet my soul”. Zahoor nervously asked her, “Are you from India?” She covered her breast tightly with her books. He noticed that they were about craniofacial anomalies. “Yes, I used to live in Delhi, and now I’ve lived in New York for several years. What about you?” He replied, “I’ve also lived here for several years and don’t even remember when I was born, but it was in Pakistan.” He sighed deeply. She asked if he was in pain. He told her that sometimes the rawness of beauty wounded him. And that every wound bears a tale. The girl was astonished and asked, “The story of my wound? I don’t have a wound. If you’re judging me by my face, let me enlighten you that I was born like this. My mother told me that the universe shifted gears when I was born. The sun got stuck in an eclipse, the moon hid behind the stars, and the earth spun out of control But the ox, or the bull that held up this earth, had only one horn. So when he got tired, he switched his horn” She went on, “I may be different, but I am not wounded.” Zahoor extended his hand to her and introduced himself. My name is Sundermukhi. Zahoor’s eyes shimmered as he told her he was an artist, but his studio was shut down. 

She asked why. He told her that his heart was searching for his soul and that his former style had disappeared. She said to him that his style was very enigmatic. I am aware of your art; you are one of the leading painters from south Asia. Then they parted ways with a promise to meet again. Zahoor sensed that Sundermuki’s beautiful face might open the locked door of his heart. He was convinced her portrait would be the only masterpiece to free his heart and soul. After a long wait, they met at a restaurant, and after dinner, he said. “I would love to paint your portrait.” After a while, she agreed. 

Zahoor was ecstatic. He had found his new muse; his professional life would start again. He informed art dealers that he was coming back. That became the raging news of the art circles. Zahoor was painting again! He bade goodbye to his tattoo job, even though it was another aspect of his profession. He kept his gun and pigments as a souvenir. Like a bridegroom in high spirits, Zahoor decorated his studio impatiently and impulsively, like passionate waves crashing against the shore. Suzan was delighted that he was painting once again. And was still very much in love with him. Of course, Zahoor didn’t tell her about Sundermukhi, who was supposed to arrive at noon to sit as his model. He assembled all his paint materials. He could hardly wait. He couldn’t sleep the previous night with all that excitement, lust, and thrill moving coursing through him. Suzan thought this was because he was excited by his return to painting. Zahoor was surprised when he restlessly arrived at the studio to find the door open, pigment boxes adequately arranged, and the brushes aligned and ready. Even the brush cleaning oil was on the table. Then he saw Suzan naked in an intoxicated stupor, lying as usual in front of Zahoor’s canvas. Next to the brush cleaning container lay an unopened envelope addressed to him. He saw it was from Sundermuki, and he opened it with great disappointment that she had changed her mind. “My face is an open book; it should not be imprisoned within the four walls of a canvas prison.” Zahoor was heartbroken and sad. He sat down on the chair to pull himself together. When he looked up, he saw before him the enraptured and intoxicated Suzan; He felt a sudden shock wave hit his head. He grabbed the tattoo machine filled with paint and tattooed the imagery of Sundermuki all over Suzan’s face. 

Portrait in Words | Mumtaz Hussain

The Alphabet of the Image |
Mumtaz Hussain’s short stories with paintings

• Chapter 1 | The Barking Crow
• Chapter 2 | When the Rain Shines through the Sunlight
• Chapter 3 | Her Resplendent Face
• Chapter 4 | Enigmatic Mumtaz
• Chapter 5 | Mona Lisa of Bones and Flesh
• Chapter 6 | The Death of Life
• Chapter 7 | His Master’s Voice
• Chapter 8 | Half Shut Eye Wisdom
• Chapter 9 | The Bride of God
• Chapter 10 | The Fragile Mountains and the Flowing Moonlight
• Chapter 11 | Adam’s Rib
• Chapter 12 | Godly Bastard
• Chapter 13 | Poppy cultivated in Heaven
• Chapter 14 | Virus Bomb

See:

Pakistani Mumtaz Hussain Bags 2024 International Impact Book Award (April 23, 2024)

Historic Win for Pakistani-American at International Impact Book Awards (April 13, 2024)