Language of Love Part 16

 

Tokyo arrived in a blur. The journey felt rushed, like I'd left something precious behind in a dream. At the airport, a name on a placard – "Shinlay Shinas?" – turned into Chiyo, who worked for Yamashi. Our one-hour car ride was a struggle in mismatched languages. We cobbled together a communication system, peppered with ancient tongue.

Yamashi, a kind and successful man with a photography business and travel magazine, greeted me at his house. The air itself seemed to crackle with a quiet intensity – a stark contrast to the frenetic energy of the airport. His home, a sprawling traditional structure nestled amidst a manicured garden, felt like a haven. Inside, I was ushered into a simple room, devoid of clutter but bathed in the warm glow of the setting sun.

His conditions were clear, delivered in a voice that was firm yet strangely gentle. No phones. Cleanliness and order in my surroundings. Constant observation and self-understanding. Each word hung in the air, weighty and demanding. A part of me bristled at the strictness, yet another part, the part yearning for discipline, couldn't help but be intrigued.

My room was spartan, furnished with a futon, a low table, and a single, ornately framed landscape photograph that dominated the wall. The sight of it – a breathtaking vista of snow-capped mountains bathed in golden light – sent a jolt of excitement through me. This, I realized, was a glimpse into Yamashi's world, a world where capturing beauty was a sacred pursuit.

The early wake-up call, a gentle chime that seemed to emanate from the very walls, startled me from a restless sleep. As I stumbled out of bed, stiff from the unfamiliar sleeping arrangements, I found Yamashi already up. He moved with an effortless grace that spoke of years of disciplined routine.

In the kitchen, a simple breakfast of rice, miso soup, and pickled vegetables awaited. As I ate, Yamashi watched me, his gaze intense. It was a look that seemed to pierce right through me, searching for something, some hidden potential perhaps.

Finally, he spoke. "This," he said, his voice a low rumble, and gestured towards a sleek black case on the table. He opened it, revealing a camera and a set of expensive lenses that glinted in the morning light. "This is how you'll see the real beauty of the world," he declared, his words heavy with meaning.

Yamashi's wealth was evident in the luxuriousness of his home, the impeccable taste displayed in his surroundings. But it wasn't just the material possessions that spoke of success. There was a quiet confidence in his bearing, a depth in his eyes that hinted at a life well-lived, a life dedicated to capturing the fleeting moments that made up the world's tapestry.

He saw my confusion, the unspoken question hanging in the air. "Why you?" he seemed to say with a slight lift of his eyebrow. I offered a small smile, a silent vow to prove myself worthy of his trust, of this incredible opportunity.

"Rest," he said, his voice softer now. "We shoot tomorrow. Five AM sharp." As I bowed in acknowledgement, a thrill of anticipation shot through me. This was the beginning of something extraordinary, and I was determined to be ready.

Dinner, a struggle with chopsticks, was saved by a kind servant who brought a spoon. The next morning, I woke before the alarm to find Yamashi already up. Punctuality was paramount.

We set off in the car, my destination a mystery. As Yamashi's sole assistant, I fumbled through tasks, my inexperience a constant hurdle. His shouts, though harsh, held a strange urgency. Despite the pressure, a grudging respect for Yamashi grew. Here was a man who had mastered his craft, and his dedication was infectious.

The week of fashion shoots was a whirlwind. Exhausted but slowly learning, I found myself drawn into Yamashi's world. In the evenings, after the chaos subsided, he'd share stories of his travels, his eyes gleaming as he spoke of capturing fleeting moments in faraway lands. A shared love for photography began to bridge the language barrier.

One night, as Yamashi reviewed photos, a flicker of frustration crossed his face. He sighed, a sound that surprised me in its vulnerability. Seizing the opportunity, I hesitantly confessed my yearning for wildlife photography. To my surprise, a slow smile spread across his face.

"Patience, young one," he said, his voice softer than usual. "We all have our time. Next, we chase the elusive sparrow hawk."

Excitement crackled through me. Finally, a chance to capture nature's raw beauty. I messaged Shahana, promising an update as soon as I found internet. That night, packing commenced. The company sponsored our stay and food on the island, a paradise waiting to be explored.

The next day, I was the first one ready. A genuine smile from Yamashi – perhaps a glimpse into his own past – warmed me. At the airport, the boarding pass secured, I finally connected to Wi-Fi. My call to Shahana went straight to voicemail. Disappointment gnawed at me. Next, I called Dad – no answer, just a sent message. The three-hour flight stretched on. Charlie buried himself in a book about the rare bird we were chasing. I whiled away the time with in-flight entertainment, but my mind buzzed with anticipation.

Landing at last, we checked into the hotel. The first thing I did was grab the Wi-Fi password. My phone buzzed – Shahana! Relief washed over me. We exchanged updates, her voice a balm to my loneliness. Finally, I signed off, "Take care of yourself. I miss you." Her simple reply, "Yeah, I am completely fine. Tell me everything, yaar! Why are you being so silent?" hung heavy in the air – a reminder of the connection I craved.


 

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