“Descriptive anyway,” he grinned. “And if you have to go I had better tell you about that other matter before I forget. Mind you, as I said before you have to put your heart in it, and even then it’s not for everyone.” He paused; rolling another evil smelling cigarette, then changing his mind stuck the scraggy tube behind his ear.
“Everyone needs a secret place to escape to when the going gets tough, somewhere really wonderful and beautiful, especially for you.” Painter Man leaned forward and tapped me gently on the chest with his finger to emphasize the point.
I wasn’t sure if he expected a reply, but I couldn’t think of anything to say so I kept quiet and waited. It was the right move, for a moment later he continued.
“But we have to create that place, boy, paint a picture of it in our minds. Brush the canvass with bold sweeping strokes of imagination showing where it is you would like to be. The fine detail and artwork of things that mean the most to you. Memories, feelings and such can always be added later as you go along. Though, you have to forget the bad ones, because they don’t belong there. This is your own private place, where everything is happy and free. As life moves on new features and new experiences will be added to the treasure without losing any of your familiar favorites. And the picture will remain with you always, a living haven of peace and happiness, waiting to welcome whenever you have need of it.”
“I’m afraid I couldn’t do that Painter Man. I don’t have much imagination; in fact Aunt Delia says I haven’t any at all. So I wouldn’t know where to begin.”
“Rubbish boy, doubtless your aunt has many aptitudes, but character assessment is obviously not one of them.” He was looking fierce again, though whether at Aunt Delia or me I wasn’t sure. “Of course you have imagination, boy, everyone has. Just picture a scene where you felt really happy. It can be anywhere, a landscape, a garden, an orchard, a house, or even a particular room. Just close your eyes and let it come to you.”
I tried, I truly did. I would have done anything to please the Painter Man, but I couldn’t come up with a single idea. In the end I just opened them again and stared at him in dumb apology.
“You can’t recall being happy anywhere?” He shook his head slowly; some dust or a fly must have flown into his eyes for he blinked rapidly and rubbed them with the heel of his hand.
“Well now, let’s see,” he blew his nose loudly on the bit of rag. “Is there any place you’ve enjoyed looking at, perhaps at a certain time of day maybe?” He paused, head cocked on one side like a suspicious chicken.
I thought for a moment then smiled happily, at least I could answer him with something. “I can see the sea from my bedroom window, and if I’m awake in time I love to watch the sun come up from the horizon first thing in the morning.”
His face broke into a broad smile and he danced a little jig right there in front of me. “You see boy, you see, I knew we would find it if we tried hard enough, just knew it.” He grabbed my hand and we jigged wildly together for a moment, uncaring of the curious crowd. Then holding me at arms length he looked deep in my eyes. “Now boy, you had better be off or your aunt will kipper you for sure. We probably won’t meet again, you and me as my ferry sails soon after five, tomorrow morning. But I want you to promise me you will come back here by seven, no matter how difficult it might be. I can see you’re a determined boy, so I want your promise that you’ll be here no later than seven. Will you give me your word on it?”
I nodded dumbly, not trusting myself to speak. Yet I had to know one last thing about him before he went. Taking a deep breath to steady myself I said, “Before you go, Painter Man, will you tell me why you were unhappy at that school?”
“Why bless you boy, of course I will.” He smiled to show he understood how important the matter was to me. “I had been teaching art to students for more years than I care to remember, until one day I finally had to admit to myself that I couldn’t paint. No matter how hard I tried I was a fraud you see. I was a teacher who had pressed his counterfeit knowledge on countless talented students, while my own was restricted to drawing picture post cards,” he pointed at the paving stones. It hurt like hell at the time, but then moments of truth often do. But I got over it, and over that bloody school as well, not that it was the schools fault. But instead of being the end of everything, it turned out to be the beginning. I won’t say there haven’t been any ups and downs; of course there have and the world would be a dull place without them. But it was my admission that day that gave me my freedom, the chance to do what I do well, and to do it when I like and anywhere I please. And mark my words, boy; such freedom represents riches most people can only dream about. So always remember, whatever you think you want may turn out to be not what you really need or want at all.” He winked and smiled at me head askew to satisfy himself I would remember what he had said, then satisfied dropped to his knees and began working on a new picture.
I never saw Picture Man again, though I kept my promise, climbing out of the kitchen window in time to get to his pitch by seven the following morning. Fifteen minutes before the street cleaning truck came by to wash the pavements, but just in time to commit my secret place to memory before it was brushed from human eyes forever.
All the pictures had been scuffed beyond recognition by passing pedestrians overnight. All, that is bar one, which he must have drawn in the first light of day, long after the last reveler had retired to bed. It was a magic scene looking out from the dunes. The tide was out and beyond the sweep of clean wet sand a gleaming silver sea stretched out to meet the breaking dawn. Bright shafts of sunbeams reached up like searchlights to bathe the morning clouds in gentle hues of pink and gold against a background of growing azure blue. Standing on a sand dune in one corner of the picture, a young boy stood, gazing with hope at the magnificent panorama unfolding before him, a baseball cap on his head and an ice cream cornet in one hand.
Over the years the composition has changed in harmony with events just as he said it would, but the basic picture remains the same. I couldn’t count the number of times I have visited that beach in times of stress or trouble and watched the breaking dawn from my favourite sand dune. And thanks to Painter Man, I still do.
Three Cowries
My heart swells with pride and joy at the thought of my little cousin brother, “Three Cowries.” If anyone could have ever been my soul mate, it was he. I was only eight and he seven, when he passed away. It was inevitable as he had a heart condition but more appropriately, because he was a boy….
My aunt could not have a healthy son. All the sons that she had given birth to had died either at birth or as toddlers. The girls were healthy and alive. So this time, when she had again birthed a boy, she had instructed her maidservant, who lived with the family to be his mother at a price of three cowries. Ahalya, the midwife and maid, had bought the baby boy by paying three cowries to my aunt. The pale and frail boy was now Ahalya’s son but being brought up in his own parents' house. This was the arrangement made to avoid the curse that was hanging over all boys that his mother gave birth to – it was a hope to trick destiny and make her son live.
I and Three Cowries were the best of friends in the crowded joint family setup. In the beautiful hill station of Hazaribagh, during the times India was ruled by the British, we shared everything we possibly could and were inseparable. We went to school together helping each other carry our heavy satchels on the way and chatting merrily about life in general. We never felt tired in spite of those long walks as we were busy with our innocent banter. But that was before Three Cowries had been diagnosed with the heart condition. Needless to say, my aunt was heart-broken. Destiny had failed her again......
The saddest days of my life were when I had to go to school without Three Cowries. As his disease was discovered and he came under the care of doctors and family members, there were times when he could not make it to school. He would be wrapped up in woolens and
seated smugly in the house courtyard to watch the birds and squirrels. When I returned from school in the afternoons, we would make it up by trying to climb the trees and chasing away my mother’s hens and ducks from their roosts. Collecting the raw green mangoes from our own mango tree was our favorite pastime. And we did all this while the ladies of the house rested in their respective rooms. After all, they would soon have to get back to work preparing the evening meals and other chores. As it was, the lunch menu used to be a varied one with different courses. First, something bitter, like bitter gourd or neem with little rice, then pulses and rice with some fried vegetables, then came fish or mutton curry with rice or puffed fries made from refined wheat dough that swelled up like balls when deep fried, called poories and finally sweet-sour liquid chutney made from various kinds of fruits like raw, green mangoes or berries. On occasions and Sundays there would be rice porridge too. Poories could be had with any meal – breakfast, evening snack or even at dinner. They had to be fried one by one. The mothers must really be weary, I thought. However, in spite of this heavy schedule, on many afternoons, I used to find my mother sewing clothes for the old, weak, infirm, sick, and the infants. She would bring soft cotton cloth or wool and sew or knit comfortable clothing items. Most of Three Cowries’ clothes were products of my mother’s handiwork.
As the days progressed, poor Three Cowries had to give up many of the luxuries of life that I was entitled to. Poories, accompanied by a delicious potato dish that was our favorite snack, was now kept away from Three Cowries. This was really unbearable for me. I just could not get a morsel of this down my throat anymore. My eyes would well up and I would run out the house with my plate, go round to the back of the house till I reached the window of Three Cowries’ room. There, I would whisper his name to draw his attention. Three Cowries was weak and had to lie in bed most of the time. Fortunately, his bed was near the window. As his head appeared from the window and he would peer into my eyes, I would hand him a poorie roll with the potato tucked inside it and urge him to eat before anyone entered his room.
“My lovely friend!” he would squeal with joy. I was more of a friend than a sister. This continued with other goodies that Three Cowries was not permitted to eat, delicious rice cakes, sweets made with clarified butter, and deep-fried dishes were passed on to him through the window regularly.
One day, I could not share my food with Three Cowries because I had developed a fever and a cold. I was confined to my room, thinking of my dear cousin. I did not have to wait for long because soon Three Cowries came to visit me. The maid carried him to my room and placed him on a chair that was pulled up to the side of my bed. “Did they give you sweet lime juice, Three Cowries?” I asked him with concern. “Yes, sister,” he replied. “They gave juice to me also,” I told him innocently and happily. As both of us had had the juice, there was no question of not being able to share my food with him today. I was served similar boiled and insipid food like he was as long as I was unwell; this pitiable common thread that temporarily bound us gave us immense happiness.
One day, my father came home with a big tin of foreign cookies. He used to bring this most coveted gift every few months and it would be a memorable occasion for all of us cousins to surround him and wait with bated breath while he opened the beautiful tin to display the array of variously sized and shaped cookies. We could all have our moieties only after this ceremony. These were the luxuries that the British times afforded us.
One day this ceremony was held in my absence. I was busy taking notes at my friend’s place as I had missed school while I was ill. I returned home late in the evening. As the cycle rickshaw pulled into the cobbled pathway jangling its bells and stood in front of my home, I saw Three Cowries smiling gleefully at me from his position in the maid’s arms. He had been waiting for me and as soon as I entered the house, he opened his closed palm, exhibiting its contents in front of my eyes. It held two coconut cookies – my favorite ones. The maid’s eyes welled up. “Three Cowries has been holding them in his custody since morning, lest your unscrupulous cousins deprived you of your share,” she informed me, both sadness and pride glinting in her eyes. Similarly, I often held two mango seeds in my hand sometimes for hours till I reached home and we both could suck on the succulent seeds together, sitting face to face and expressing our enjoyment of the delicious stuff with our eyes, smacking our lips and clucking our tongues oblivious to everything but ourselves. My fingers would be sticky and go stiff with holding something for long time but that did not ever bother me. Our bond was unique because with nobody else could I share my thoughts just with my eyes. Three Cowries understood me best.
As his disease progressed and the elders of the family whispered scary messages and made fearful eye contact whenever the doctor examined him, I and Three Cowries remained unaware of what was to come. All the while, we only thought of what our next moves in the courtyard would be in the afternoons when the sleepy town rested. Three Cowries became paler, thinner and sunken-eyed. But who noticed? We were deep in our conversations and games.
But the day finally arrived and I had to be deprived of my best friend. I do not know how my aunt bore it but I tried to make her smile by eating my friend’s favorite food from her hands. poories and potato curry. I would carry this dish to my aunt, thinking that she would feel happy by remembering it was Three Cowries’ favorite dish. She would feed the dish to me patiently with her own hands. As a grown-up I understand now that it was a vicarious pleasure she indulged in. She would smile and continue to feed me while I chatted on about Three Cowries and the other things he loved to eat. But once I left her room, I would have tears in my eyes and perhaps she in hers. I never revealed to her that I had fed him those dishes all throughout his short life, even though I knew those foods were proscribed for him. I felt guilty for his death. Perhaps, I had poisoned him?
As I grew older, I immersed myself in studies during those grim, empty afternoons that reminded me of the little frail boy. The ducks and hens were at peace or seemed to be so.
I became a doctor and learned about various diseases. I learned that the food I had been stealthily giving Three Cowries was not proscribed for the disease that he was suffering from but rather prescribed. In fact, he needed that kind of nourishment, which he was actually being deprived of. Medical science has progressed and prognoses, prescriptions, diagnostic techniques and medicines - all have changed. I heaved a sigh of relief as the burden I bore of all the years melted into a ball of glowing love, warmth and beautiful memories.
Section 498, Indian Penal Code
Even as I heard the birds chirping through the haze of slumber, even as I stirred sleepily and even before I could mentally register that it was morning, my cell phone rang. Though it was a soothing ring tone, I was irritated at the urgency of the caller. Wasn’t it too early to call anyone?
My friend, Amisha, she would call, SMS me at any time of the day (or night). Even as I lazily greeted her on the phone, she was already barking at me. “Rina, are you still sleeping? What nonsense! Please tell the auto driver your address.” I jumped up with a start. Amisha was coming from Kolkata and I had forgotten to check the date on the calendar….it was the 19th; she had indeed informed me about her visit a few days back. I explained the address to the driver and lay back on bed. All the joints in my body were hurting. On top of that, Amisha and her daughter were vegetarians. I suddenly felt that non-veg was so much easier to cook! I had no maid at the time and Amisha had sounded so desperate that I could not tell her to postpone or cancel her visit or look for another place to stay. Much to my chagrin, she and her teenaged daughter argued all the time and it was somewhat tiring to be in their company.
Amisha was a lawyer. She had not mentioned that she was coming with a client, Parul. Perhaps she had forgotten, what with all that she had to manage. I heard that Parul had been ill-treated by her husband in Mumbai and gone back to her parents’ home in Kolkata. Now she was here with her lawyer, Amisha, and some female police
constables to book her husband for cruelty under Section 498 of the IPC.
Amisha dealt with the case deftly as I packed them off with good wishes and prayers for their success every morning for the next 2 to 3 days. The erring husband was caught by the police jointly with the help of the local police, packed off on the train and taken to Kolkata to be tried under Section 498 that deals with cruelty. Amisha attended the case and within a few days, wanted to come back to Mumbai, to my house.
I had my career to devote time to and my failing health and lack of domestic help was already killing me. Amisha continued demanding my company, calling me at all odd hours. I tried to divert her by asking about her exciting cases. She did tell me about a few cases but in a lacklustre manner. Strangely, I noticed that someone was always shouting agitatedly in the background at her end whenever she called.
“Either you come with me for a vacation or you arrange for someone for me!” she demanded of me one midnight. “I am yearning for some company and I cannot bring a man home. What will my daughter think?”
“So should it be a man only?” I asked.
“No, it can be a woman, but at this age I am lonely and I need someone, my darling. Let’s go to Goa!” she jumped and made some smooching sounds over the phone.
I was now angry and did not know how to evade this issue. I was fed up of Goa, having gone there in the recent past for some work and having had to stay there for three whole months. And I could not take leave! From Kolkata, Goa seemed like some exotic far-off locale but for me it had become a familiar neighboring area now. And somehow I would end up feeling like a lesbian when she would talk to me in that fashion. I tried explaining to her how I was sick and aging and had to meet some commitments but she would have none of it! Meanwhile, as she spoke, the barking behind her got louder and louder.