She peered out of her solitary confinement into the hallway. A quick glance both ways confirmed that it was deserted. The guard had finished his beat for the night and was slumped in the chair by the door. She tiptoed out of the French window into the garden surrounding the castle. The clear night sky was ablaze with a multitude of stars as if celebrating a festival of lights. She lay on the grass looking at the sky, hypnotised. Humming to herself, she connected the little dots in the sky into shapes of her own, naming them one by one. A sudden rustle from the rose bushes near her startled her. Had someone heard her? She held her breath, afraid of being discovered. A little rat shot across the ground foraging for leftovers from last evening’s garden party. She sat up, sighing in relief. Dreamily, she strolled towards her preferred part of the garden where it overlooked the countryside. The valley looked like an extension of the night sky with small glittering lights marking the numerous homes where the ‘commoners’ lived.
A faint sound of music, carried by the breeze, reached her ears. She wondered how life would be in the countryside. The humble homes seemed decidedly deprived of the opulence of the castle. Still they fascinated her. Throughout the day, people walking up and down the hallway, would talk of life beyond the castle. She would listen intently trying to pick pieces of conversations, and what she heard always intrigued her. She wanted to see what transpired behind those mud walls. She yearned to be part of the colourful festivals, the dancing, the singing and the road trips that passersby in the hallway talked of. She created images of people going about their daily chores: a father teaching his son how to ride a bicycle, a group of dancers preparing for their performance, a farmer going to his fields, a shoemaker setting up shop, a mother bidding goodbye to her children as they went to school. Every day, she would create countless images from the bits she collected throughout the day. Every night, she would project them onto the households in the countryside. Her favourite image was that of a little girl lying in a valley of flowers while her shepherd friend ran about gathering his herd. She would amuse herself by imagining the antics of the goats and the comic faces that the shepherd made as he would follow them, coaxing them, shouting at them, behaving like a goat himself.
This was as close as she could get to the world. She knew she could never live her imagery; she had not been created for that purpose. She could not complain of her position. She was held in awe by everyone. People all over the world – artists and literary experts, noblemen and commoners – marvelled at her. Yet it was her nightly expeditions that she was living on. Nothing else could give her the bliss that she experienced when she would be in the garden vicariously living a normal human life.
The twitter of the early bird broke her trance. Soon it would be daylight. She needed to go back before the break of the day. She hurried inside gathering her gown around her, and entered the picture frame that was her abode during the day. She was ready for the visitors, ready to flash that mysterious smile which had been the source of relentless debate and discussion throughout centuries. And only she, Mona Lisa, knew the reason for it.
