The Cave

A man finds an inspirational twist for his artistic endeavors. Writers Cramp 10/24/2025.

Grok gestured wildly at his wife Kag from the mouth of the cave, emitting sounds that Kag barely registered. She was occupied grooming one of their offspring who writhed in agony as if his mother had been administering the cruelest of routines upon him.
         “Come here, Kag!” Grok bellowed in caveman speak, beaming with pride.
         “What’d you say?” Kag responded, not meeting her husband’s gaze, still focused on removing lice from her son Lerk’s matted hair.
         “I know words are hard but come here for a second. I gotta show you something,” Grok implored, hoping Kag would understand the meaning behind his enthusiastic grunts.
         Kag finally looked in the direction of the cave entrance where she saw her husband excitedly dancing in place, his hands stained red from what was undoubtedly the clay with which their clan’s abode was replete. He’d been painting again, Kag concluded, rolling her eyes as she dutifully arose. Lerk bolted from his mother’s capture to join his cousins in play at the bottom of the hill.
         She’s gonna love it, Grok thought to himself as he grabbed a torch and led Kag into the main caverns. As they walked, they passed Yip and Rog—Grok’s brothers—who were busy sharpening spears for the following day's hunt. Careful not to have her husband notice, Kag exchanged a tiny smile with Rog.
         “Check this out,” Grok efforted, raising the torch to illuminate a small section of the cavern.
         Kag looked in dismay at the sight of yet another series of stencils of what is clearly Grok’s left hand. She turned to her husband who regarded her with curious eyes. “They… look nice.”
         “I know what you’re thinking,” Grok grunted. “But they’re different than the other ones.”
         Kag scanned the walls of the cavern, which featured all of Grok’s work to date. She could not tell which ones were from this week and which were from twenty moons ago. “Sure they are, dear.”
         Grok’s smile waned as he took in his wife’s full meaning. Kag was not wrong, of course. Grok had painted only hands—well, his left hand—this whole time. From several feet away, Yip and Rog chuckled, shaking their heads at their brother’s ineptitude. Grok knew what his brothers thought of him—not good at hunting, not good at anything. Even Lerk preferred to hang out with his uncles.
         With his head down, Grok retreated into a deeper section of the cavern where he would rest for the evening, torch in hand. He would sleep tonight with the realization that he had lost his artistic touch. He needed to do something different—to paint something other than his left hand. Ideas would elude him as he drifted to sleep.

Crouched behind a swathe of tall grass, Grok held a spear in his hand, an unfamiliar sensation. He had spent his days painting and caring for the clan while his brothers and nephews hunted, and he was content with his role. Kag had seemed happy about it at first—it was good to have a man around while the others were away. It felt safer for her and the other mothers somehow.
         But Kag grunted a different tune this morning. “Go hunt with the others—we’ll be fine.”
         Grok had been confused then but as he watched the hunt unfold, his brothers and nephews adeptly rounding out and slaying two aggressive beasts that will sustain them for many moons, Grok suddenly felt an overwhelming wave of inspiration washing over him. He watched with rapt attention, his eyes never leaving the dynamic scene as it unfolded, one magnificent moment after another, burned into his memory.

“Please watch your step,” warned Raminder, his voice with equal parts of warmth and conviction. “It gets a little slippery in here.” The American family who had hired him for a tour of the Bhimbetka Caves obliged without protest. They had paid top dollar for this guided tour, and it would be a shame if a careless injury interrupted the experience.
         Within thirty-five minutes, the small group arrived at the much-anticipated section of the cave. A tiny gasp escaped from Mrs. Miller’s mouth as she marveled at the painting. “It’s beautiful,” she managed.
         Her fourteen-year-old son, Mackenzie, stared at the painting that had faded with time. “I don’t get it.”
         Mr. Miller looked down at his son with a frown. “What’s not to get? It’s a group of early man hunting down some buffalos.”
         “They were more like wild hogs, I believe,” Raminder offered kindly, his tone at once authoritative and yielding. He did not want the main sponsor of this trip to sound uninformed.
         “Can you imagine what the artist must’ve been thinking as he created this truly inspirational piece?” Mrs. Miller asked, her eyes darting back and forth across the cave wall, taking it all in.
         “Food, I imagine,” offered her daughter, Madison, dryly.
         With a small huff, Mackenzie turned around to walk back toward the mouth of the cave. “Can we go now?”
         “We just got here,” Mr. Miller protested, then turned to Raminder. “Take us to the next spot.”
         Raminder’s eyes softened. “Actually, Mr. Miller. This is it,” he said, as Mackenzie chuckled and Madison dramatically rolled her eyes.
         “Fine,” Mr. Miller said, turning around toward the cave entrance as well. “C’mon, honey.”
         Mrs. Miller briefly looked at her husband then turned to appreciate the cave painting for another beat before she herself joined the rest of the group. The memory ingrained in her mind of the stroke of artistic genius from a prehistoric human she would never get to know.