The Muse
In the serene and artistically impregnated art gallery, critics, art lovers and casual visitors were drawn to the painting of the “Lavender Lady.” The painting had brought into sudden public eye, an obscure and struggling artist. The “Lavender Lady” had catapulted him into instant fame and subjected his work to incessant scrutiny.
“Is it a part of the design, or just a flaw, which he never tried to cover up?” An eager lady asked the young man standing next to her.
“This is the whole mystery surrounding this beautiful work. Some say he added the tear smudge for compounded effect.” The onlooker answered.
“It is a unique style; a water droplet, allowed to seep in and spread in a tiny concentric circle, just slightly smudging the kohl in her eyes. It is beautifully executed.” The lady commented in awe.
“Maybe a bead of perspiration, or a raindrop from a leaking roof.” A khakhi-clad middle aged man offered, as he approached the painting. “Some critics say that it is a careless blotch that he never touched up.”
“Yes, I have read of the criticism, but the effect is so natural. It is hard to believe that this is the result of negligence.” The lady smiled. She was as much mesmerized by the painting, as by the criticism surrounding it.
The young man smiled, “We may never know the truth. The painter may never reveal the truth, especially after this painting has become his license to fame in the art world.”
The khakhi-clad man, who seemed well read on the painter and his style, pitched in sarcastically, “Maybe it is not the painter, but the portrait framer who inadvertently spoiled the painting and the painter let it stay because it gave the painting an effect that even he couldn’t envisage. The framer deserves all the credit then for bringing this portrait into limelight.”
“Even without the dried tear-drop effect the painting is marvelous. It is hard to imagine that he was a nature artist and this is his first portrait. He had a beautiful model…..” The voices continued to chatter and offer myriad viewpoints, while the “Lavender Lady” looked on, with a tear-smudged kohl-lined eye.
In the darker corner of the art gallery, an almost inaudible voice, gave the final judgment, “It is a real tear. It is his tear.” Ananya adjusted the loose end of her sari to cover her face and moved quickly out of the art gallery. Her friend at the publishing house was right. The “Lavender Lady” bore a striking resemblance to Ananya. She had wanted to see it for herself and she knew that it was her portrait and it was his tear.
In the cluttered recess of his studio, Sameer worked at a feverish pace, adding a stroke here, mixing a color there. He painted with indefatigable passion, tiny sweat beads glistening on his forehead, a vein throbbing in his neck, a tiny muscle twitching in his wrist, as he brandished the paint brush with concentration and expertise. On that cold January evening, he had promised himself that this would be his last attempt.
Days after days he had discarded sketches and semi-finished canvas for he could never get the right image, the correct expression or the exact color. From the smile in her eyes, to the smirk on her lips, from the glitter in her pearl ear stud, to the lavender of her dress, he would find something to be dissatisfied with. Each time he had gone back into his bedroom, picked up the phone, dialed her number and pleaded to her to let him see her once. The phone receiver was stained with hues of brown and lavender, a reminder of his unsuccessful attempts, as each time she rebutted his request. He was left with his memory of her and his mind’s eye always created a confused image. He wanted to paint her the way she was, not how he imagined her to be now or how he would want her to be.
“Art is business. You artists glorify art as the ultimate expression of the soul and the mind. But dear child, there is a body, and the body needs to be fed and clothed and sheltered. You may survive on soul food and images conjured in your mind but what about your wife and child?” Sameer’s father-in-law admonished and advised in one go.
Sameer sat, head hung low, toying with a pencil in his hand. Then he stopped fidgeting. “Ok, so what do you want me to do?”
“Get real! Your paintings do not sell and you are not getting any assignments. How long do you think your savings will last or I can support my daughter and grandchild? Your art has to make money, if it is still your art that you want to pursue.” The old man spoke patiently, practically.
“Fine, I am giving up my free lancing career. I will apply in the city art college. They have a position vacant for an art teacher. I will try my luck there.” Sameer said in a condescending tone.
The old man sighed in relief and patted Sameer’s hand as he got up to leave.
Ananya was the last student to arrive for the first class of the new session at the art college. Needlessly, she caught everyone’s attention. She stumbled in apologetically, quickly scanned the classroom, and hastily occupied the empty seat in the middle row. As soon as she settled down, the students reverted their attention from her to the new art teacher. Sameer stood spellbound, still looking at Ananya. Dressed in a lavender suit, with a flowing chiffon dupatta that trailed on the ground, with a wisp of highlighted hair teasing her kohl-lined left eye, Ananya had carried the frolic and freshness of April into the room. Ananya met Sameer’s gaze and cleared her throat consciously. Sameer’s reverie was broken.
He began his first lecture, albeit absent mindedly. At the back of his mind he was contemplating the right mix of colors in his palette that would reflect Ananya’s sun kissed complexion and the copper brown highlights in her hair. As he traced the history of art and painting, he got down from the lecture dais and moved towards the rows of benches. He reached the row were Ananya was seated and gently lifted the trailing dupatta, even as he spoke, and handed it to her. Ananya looked away self-consciously, while Sameer’s conscience was overpowered by the light perfume that surrounded her.
There was nothing unique about Ananya. She was plain, elegant and young, like any college girl. But the artist in Sameer had seen her aura – the colors that surrounded her and even the shadows that enveloped her. Behind her innocent, simple girlish demeanor, there was a mature, understanding woman in the making and this is what Sameer had sensed the very first day of setting sight upon her.
Sameer started enjoying his work at the art college, not because of the nature of his assignment, but because of Ananya. She became his reason to go to the art college. He filled his empty hours in painting beautiful landscapes, flowers and still life. He dedicated each of these to Ananya. His paintings became more real and more vibrant. His family, friends and associates believed that his work at the art college was opening up newer vistas of knowledge and experiment. Only Sameer knew that he was stealing the colors from Ananya’s lips and her eyes, from the blemishes and blush of her cheeks, the contours from her delicate shoulder bones and full hips, and the styles from her dresses and jewelry. The new embellishments in his work were inspired by Ananya and though it was his secret, he always wanted to share this secret with her.
Destiny is less cruel than circumstances. Circumstances overtake destiny and then wreck havoc. Sameer’s muse would have remained his own, and he would have continued to create magic with his brush, in silent adoration of Ananya. He was a family man and he was aware of the limitations of falling in love at this stage of his life. He was happy in his new found love and his secret musings. He would have lived like this for eons and eons wondering who the real Ananya was and creating his own images of her in the petals of a flower or the ripples of a stream. And then on an October afternoon, Ananya walked right into his life with tears in her eyes and autumn in her hair.
“I am leaving this course. I can’t draw a straight line and I can never get the right hues. I should have known that I do not have the talent for fine arts. I am artistic; I have so many beautiful ideas and myriad visions. I wanted to put them down on paper. But, just look at this monstrosity that I have sketched. Now, I am joining a course in creative writing. So, I have just come to wish you good bye and to thank you for all your patient efforts in trying to improve my work.” Ananya said it all with clarity and with utmost brevity. And now she stood in silence, still holding a crudely done sketch in front of her, trying to stifle a sob.
Sameer was aware that Ananya was not a gifted painter. She did have great perception of form and shades, but she couldn’t translate them into artwork. He had contemplated more than once on her poor grades but he believed that practice and perseverance would set things right. There were worse students in the class who didn’t even make efforts, the way Ananya did. In her daily struggle, he found the imagery of the snow encased supple young buds of the cherry tree, struggling to bloom. He had painted a beautiful cherry tree in bloom for his winter exhibition.
Sameer looked at her and smiled, while his heart throbbed wildly. This was the first time that Ananya had spoken to him beyond the confines of the classroom. He took a moment to organize his thoughts and directed Ananya to a chair close by.
“There is nothing more to discuss. You can’t convince me otherwise. There is a vacant seat in the creative writing department and I am not letting this opportunity slip by. I know I can at least write well.” Ananya said with a glint in her eyes as she sat down.
Ananya was trying hard not to cry. Failure, even if taken well in stride, cannot curb sorrow.
“Ananya, I am not going to convince you. I just want to know whether you are truly convinced and if you are then you should go ahead and follow your heart.” Sameer was shocked at his own words. Letting her go meant that he would not see her in his class anymore. Ananya would be gone out of his life. As the thought crossed his mind, Sameer panicked. No, he must not let her go.
“Yes, I am convinced. The transfer documents are complete. I am attending the first class this evening.” Ananya reiterated her decision.
“How will I see you then?” Sameer couldn’t restrain himself any longer.
Ananya looked at him, questioningly.
“I mean, you are a nice person to know. One of the brightest students I ever had. Eager to learn. It is always good to meet and know people like you.” Sameer stammered an explanation.
“You can meet me whenever you want. I am just a block away.” Ananya smiled.
“Promise me then, that you will keep in touch. You will continue to meet me and talk to me and let me know about your well being.”
“Promise!” Ananya got up to leave and stretched out her hand. They shook hands and Ananya was gone and she took the autumn with her. Winter set in.
Sameer was despondent and in very low spirits. He had not stood at the easel in days and he had not attended any meetings for setting up his forthcoming exhibition. He hadn’t seen Ananya for over a fortnight and his inspiration was dwindling. The very purpose of his existence seemed overshadowed. He had to see her and talk to her. He decided to visit the creative writing block at the art college. Sameer got up that morning with a new incentive and with renowned anticipation.
“What a surprise! What are you doing here?” Ananya chirped, as she pulled her scarf over her head to shield from the November chill. The wisp of highlighted hair unfailingly teased an eye. Sameer was seeping in each detail of her fresh face.
“I came to you meet you. Coffee?” Sameer did not waste words.
“Even bigger surprise!” Ananya veiled her own surprise.
“Coffee with me.” Sameer persisted.
“I have another class in an hour, so I think I can indulge in a coffee break.” Ananya smiled.
Awkward silence. Sameer was staring at Ananya and he realized it.
“So do you have the talent for creative writing?”
“So what are teaching these days?”
Two voices quipped in simultaneously. Ananya and Sameer started laughing. The ice was broken. Coffee was served and conversation ensued. Two lives entwined and became one as the conversation progressed. More than an hour had gone by. Ananya had missed her class and Sameer had new inspiration to make up for all the days he had lost by not painting or coordinating for his exhibition.
Artistic life resumed afresh for Sameer and Ananya continued with her daily college life existence. Long coffee table conversations became the order of each passing day. Ananya was a good conversationalist and Sameer an absorbed listener. Ananya had much to share; lost love, trysts with the family, boring professors, pending assignments, shopping sprees and hostel life. Sameer had much to gain. Every contortion on Ananya’s face, each smile, the sorrow and the happiness in her eyes, the colors she wore and the poetry she recited, the ideas she shared and the philosophy she evolved continued to inspire Sameer.
“Why don’t you paint people? Portraits. Don’t you get bored painting the same nature themes? There are as many colors and facets in the human countenance as there are in the sunset. Do you even know that?” Ananya was inciting serious discussion centered on Sameer’s work.
“Yes I know. I have seen all the variations in your face.” Sameer replied blatantly. “Not just your face, your movements, your actions, your body language.”
“There you go. If you are so aware then what are you waiting for! Work on some portraits. You can have an exclusive exhibition. You will also give critics something new to talk about.” Ananya cleverly tried diverted the conversation.
“Will you be my model? Will you pose for me?” Sameer inquired earnestly. It was now or never.
“No.” Ananya could be very matter-of-fact at times.
“Why not?” Sameer wouldn’t give up so easily.
“Because I don’t want to. You can get better models and better themes.” Ananya’s voice held a tinge of irritation.
“I do not want any other model or theme. Ananya, I have thought about this for quite sometime and I am glad you brought up this discussion. When I paint a portrait, it is you I want to paint. I have been obsessed with this idea for long. I want you to spend more time with me. I want to take you to my studio, where I can spend hours and days just looking at you and ….” Sameer stopped searching for words. He could not finish his statement.
“I have to go. I am getting late for the next class.” Ananya gathered her books and left with a curt bye.
Women have a sixth sense. They can sense trouble and they can easily ascertain when a man is giving more attention, than required. Either Sameer had been successful in hiding his emotions for long, or Ananya had ignored the sparks all along, or maybe she was too innocent and engrossed in her own life to give passing thought to the emotions of a commonplace artist. But today, Ananya had picked up the indications and reacted rather strongly.
Sameer spent a restless night. Next day he went to the coffee shop and waited for Ananya. It was a long wait that day and many consecutive days. Ananya didn’t turn up. Sameer was flustered, even worried. A few days later, he went to the creative writing department and waited for her. Ananya appeared after an hour. She looked at him and then quietly lead him away.
“I am sorry about the other day. I didn’t mean to hurt you, though I really don’t know why you are hurt. I am still presuming I made a mistake.” Sameer said sorrowfully.
“I have to get back in time for the next class and examinations are around the corner. I don’t think I can spend time with you at the coffee shop.” Ananya spoke in clear words.
“Fine! Will you speak to me on the phone then? Can we exchange telephone numbers? Sameer knew that Ananya was serious about her decision not to meet him.
“Yes, that should be good.” Ananya replied as she took a paper from her notebook and scribbled her telephone number. She didn’t even ask for his number. That was indication enough for Sameer that she actually didn’t want to hear from him.
Sameer left for home with a heavy heart. He rang her up that night. Ananya answered in short terse sentences. For days the telephone remained his only point of contact. He knew Ananya would resist his attempts to meet her in the college. Examinations started and Ananya became increasingly unapproachable. Sameer’s obsession played havoc on his life. On the last day of her examination, he made another attempt to speak to her. Ananya answered the phone.
“I love you, Ananya.”
“I know. Anyway, I am leaving for home by the evening train and I may not come back to this college the next session. If I get good grades I will be offered in-house training in a publishing house.”
“Can I accompany you to the station?” Sameer clung on to the last ray of hope.
“No, I am going with my roommate. Thanks for the offer. Take care.” Ananya put down the receiver.
Sameer went to the station that evening. He remembered the train name that Ananya had mentioned in an earlier conversation. He saw Ananya standing at the railway platform, in the same lavender suit that she wore the first day in college. He didn’t have the courage to meet her. He just stood in the crowd, saw her board the train and then she became a traveler to another place, far away from his world. Her lavender image froze in his mind, irked his heart, and engulfed his soul.
As Ananya had predicted and hoped she passed with flying colors and was absorbed by a leading publishing house for on-the-job training. Sameer pined for her and vent all pent up emotions on canvas. As Ananya’s image started to fade from his mind, the quality of his art deteriorated and his summer exhibit attracted the worst possible criticism. Sameer gave up painting and concentrated on his teaching career. From the creative writing department, he procured details of the publishing house where Ananya was a trainee. He kept track of her activities, in as many ways possible, without inciting suspicion. Ananya chose to remain unaware of Sameer and his life condition.
Years flew by and Ananya advanced to a more secure position in the publishing house with a regular column in a magazine. Sameer’s only indulgence with art within his studio was in creating a collage and maintaining a scrapbook of her work. It gave him an insight into her philosophies and these kept him enthralled. Every breathing moment of his life was spent in thinking about Ananya and contemplating on her philosophy of life. He recalled her last spoken desire when she had asked him to paint a portrait. He finally decided to give her the gift; to paint her portrait. He wanted to meet her once before embarking upon his new assignment. He called up the publishing house and requested to speak to Ananya.
Sameer stood immobile as Ananya’s crystal clear voice echoed through the receiver.
“Ananya, I want to meet you. I want to see you once before I immortalize you on canvas.” Sameer tried to control the tremble in his voice.
“You know that I will not meet you. Why are you wasting your time, and mine.” Ananya admonished him, after a long silence.
“Ananya …”
The phone went dead as Ananya put down the receiver.
Sameer concluded that his attempts to meet her even one last time were futile, and he decided to paint her the way he had always known her and loved her. Three years of waiting with a painful tug in his heart was more than his sensitive artistic self could handle. He was breaking up. He had always loved her and if he could not be with her, then he will love her image. For him this painting was therapeutic and the final articulation of his relinquished yet undying love.
Kneeling beside her, he bent down and stared into her eyes. Sameer had gently pulled down the canvas from the easel and placed it on the floor. He looked into her eyes for a very long time and then a silent tear fell, into the delicate ridge between her lower eyelid and long eyelashes. The tear drop shone round and bright on the canvas and Sameer saw his own reflection in the translucence. He was mesmerized and icons engulfed his vision. For long Sameer had questioned his obsession with Ananya and today all the answers reflected from within his tear.
For the first time Sameer realized that in the past few years he had sought in Ananya, what he couldn’t find and comprehend in himself. Ananya’s life and her philosophies, her courage and the intransigence of her existence were analogous to Sameer’s own faltering and failing life. Ananya made him complete, not as a woman, but as an epitome of steadfastness and indomitable strength. She evoked passion and creativity in Sameer because she embodied the requisite fervor of the mind and beauty of the soul. All these years he was not in love with Ananya. He was in love with another individual; the individual that he wanted to be.
A split second of revelation. The canvas slowly soaked in the tear. Sameer imagined Ananya had dried his tear with the flutter of an eyelid. He gazed deep into the concentric circle of the drying drop and he clearly fathomed Ananya’s denial of his love. Ananya had always wanted him to learn and to believe for himself that true love is not about fulfillment and it is not about togetherness. The love that survives the longest knows how to let go. The love that is most inspiring is painful and soul stirring. Ananya had stirred his soul and out of his deepest longing he had created his masterpiece. Ananya’s purpose for his life was accomplished and Sameer’s musings concluded. Sameer lifted the canvas from the floor and wrapped it in lavender tinted satin. Sameer’s greatest work would soon be unveiled for the world to see and marvel at.
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