Soubhagini Parida

Inspirational

4.8  

Soubhagini Parida

Inspirational

RIVAL TIME

RIVAL TIME

14 mins
557



(We fall into the same trap that we object profoundly; power, prestige, and money.) 


  


The soft scent of the winter dawn, and the chirping of the birds, pulled Vaibhav out of bed. Sun was stretching his arms, his drops of orange luster sparkled on the dews of grass blades. Vaibhav has been through many essences and fibers of mother nature but the land which evoked the urge to paint was Mussoorie, his homeland. And the same mystical ardor was further taken over him. He quickly grabbed his tea and stepped down to his painting chamber, possessed. On his course down, his feet dropped watching his dad, as if getting back to realism. He looked at Sandipani Mohapatra retiring from the morning track. He strolled past Vaibhav as if he didn’t notice anything. With every passing time, the gulf between them seems to widen more and more. 


 Finally, he reached his spring of mind, the zephyr of peace, his ground of dance to paints and brushes, his art studio, Tulika. It was his hall of devotion. He looked at the right wall where his dad, through the painting, watched as if saying ‘You have let me down.’ He let his lips curl to an upsurging wave of emotions. An artist’s core is a fertile territory of unseen flowers, magical creatures, and vehemence, which once Sandipani had tried to contain in his world. 


 Sandipani Mohapatra was an admiral student from a poor background. His father and mother worked day and night to make the ends meet, but recognizing their son’s vigor for studies, they had dispensed no stones unturned. They had knocked on every door possible for support, from clerks to the headmaster, who had helped him wrap up his high school. He studied on scholarships most of his way of life and cleared one of the most difficult exams with flying hues. He was the talk of not only his village but of the whole country, for setting an example higher and louder than others in the IAS exam, for his unsupportive circumstances. His views used to grow moist while telling about his encounters with Vaibhav. 


 Sandipani craved his offspring likewise to emulate him to become an IAS, but his realm appeared crashing down when Vaibhav failed in his 10th pre-boards. Further, when the occasion came to choose a passage between arts or science, he established it no less clearly than what he preferred. But Sandipani hadn’t completely jilted his hopes and dreams for his only heir. But things only continued downhill. 


 He moved on to reach JNU. After his initial-year final exams when he turned home with a tall beard, Khaki kurta, Kolhapur slippers, and Shanti Niketan bag, his dad’s discontent over years, was slipping now. A feeling of his soul poignantly sinking down. 


“Have you joined politics or grown into a leftist leader?” He spoke in a satirical tone. 


“I want to be a painter.” Vaibhav blurted. 


His terms pierced Sandipani like arrows of fire, stirring up the volcano and before he perceived, his fists were near Vaibhav, seized midair by Sneha. 


“So now what you crave to become? Rabindranath Tagore, Raja Ravi Verma or Jamini Roy? Do you have the diligence, the technique? What if you fail? Then what? Do you appreciate how considerable it grabs to be a painter?” 


“No, but that’s what I wish to do,” Vaibhav said calmly. 


His mom was gently speaking. “Listen to him first.” 


“You know Abhijit’s boy is studying at IIT, Debendra’s son is planning for Cambridge, Aftab’s child is taking UPSC coaching after NIT. Indeed our driver, Bana’s girl, is reading in AIIMS.” 


After counting some more, Sandipani’s rage gradually sublimed. 


“Vaibhav! have I ever stopped you from painting? Do it as your fad, choose it as your passion further, but first, you need to be established and settled. And it’s not about cash, it’s about dignity, reputation, status, and strength. How will you walk with others?” 


Sandipani said, striding his hand over his son’s hair. 


“Babu, it’s for your good.” 


But Vaibhav was watching outside through the window. His views were mesmerized by the lush black sky, sparkling stars, the musky smell of the midnight, the warbling of the crickets. He had previously left with the fireflies in pursuit of unicorns and fairies. Sandipani abruptly got up, bringing Vaibhav back to senses. For the first time in his full life, he dints know what to suggest.


“You need to at least think of my position. Do you appreciate the wristwatch you are wearing is Rs.1,20,000, your cell phone is Rs.1,30,000? How are you planning to afford the luxury of the living that we have given you? Indeed, the pen in your pocket is Rs.25,000. Do you even realize where that is from? It’s from Paris.” 


 Vaibhav’s silence was more numbing than his speeches now, hitting him like ice. He wished to hear a transition in his settlement, but all he did was get up and go to his den. Sandipani strolled the whole night, thinking of ways to alter his son’s hypnotized heart. But he has seen Vaibhav’s canvases laden with the ecstasy of yearning. They have viewed it as if they were breathing, humming on their modest earth. Maybe he should let him be the magic of creation. Sandipani whacked his head as if trying to remove those thoughts. 


 Vaibhav returned to his college with a bag full of sweets and his mind was deluged with tears and a lot of counseling. 


“He will overlook it, as he gets busy with his schedule. It’s just another hobby.” 


Sandipani spoke for the umpteen number of times to Sneha as if reassuring himself. 


 She gets always nudged him about the incident which had happened 22years ago as if preparing him for the worst. 


“I don’t believe in individuals like those,” He used to say consistently, but nowadays there was a hint of discontent. 


 A few months later, they decided to visit Vaibhav. Standing in his chamber, Sandipani’s spirit shrank to what he viewed. A room stuffed with parched palates, paintbrushes, color stains all over the place, paintings as if they were still dancing to the ragas that his son had whipped them in. 


“Is it wrong for a dad to yearn for a better prospect for his boy?” He had claimed Sneha with wet eyes. 


But that day Sandipani realized that he has given up his battle with his son’s avidity. 


 He remembered that Naga sadhu, who years ago had made a prophecy. They were at Ganga Sagar Festival in Kolkata, when suddenly a man with an ashen face, sundry with Rudraksha and marigolds, stopped in the facade of them staring at Vaibhav as if he recognized something beyond the perils of what the sky already held. His vision had sent chills to Sneha. She hid Vaibhav’s countenance with her dupatta. But the monk treaded with a spark in his large, senile, brown eyes. 


“Your offspring is consecrate of art. He has a soul of a saint. Every step he takes shall lead towards his devotion. You will not be strong to contain him. He will be the lotus in your mire earth, always above the lustered, sanctified by his flair and gift of the divine.” 


His torn arid lips let out a wicked laugh as he merrily rambled away, leaving Sneha perturbed. She glanced at Vaibhav, who was all jittery in her arms. 


“This jumpy guy will ever develop into a patient.” She grinned at her reflection. That time, her conception had bought tranquility for her and Sandipani’s muddled nerves. But now the augury seemed more real than reality. 


 Knowing Vaibhav to retreat further and further aside, she had pleaded with Sandipani to let Vaibhav grow on his ground. 


“The last point I can tolerate it if he leaves this house.” She has once revealed, sobbing. 


That day he had bowed down, not to his strength, or his consort, but to the mother of his most precious possession, his son. 


 Gently, with the help of Sneha, Vaibhav had created a miniature universe of his own, which had all the colors of the rainbow, the fascination of rain, the flow of rivers, and the fire of angels. It turned into his Sapphire in the desert of no man. 


 Incoming footsteps broke Vaibhav from his wandering. 


“Radhe, is that you?” He called. 


“Babu, someone has come to contact you,” he responded softly as if trying not to wade away from his master’s invisible spirits. Vaibhav was invariably wonder to him. He treated him as if he knew voodoo which he will never figure out. 


“Radhe, I have explained to you not to make anyone hang. Send them in.” 


 “Namaste,” a middle-aged man greeted at the door. 


“I am Amrityanshu Chatterjee, editor of an English daily newspaper. This is my daughter, Lory.” 


Vaibhav got up to greet Amrityanshu. He grinned at Lory. She was a skinny little girl of around 4-5 years, with a face like Lily. He shook hands with her, to which she beamed with the innocence of the forest. Her eyes were naïve, unaware of the struggles of existence. For the initial time, Vaibhav experienced his dad’s protective instincts. 


‘I aspire he could perceive that what I crave for is art, not recognition.’ He sighed at his theories. 


 “Please have a couch.” He suggested, getting up.


 “Vaibhav babu, I had heard that your paintings can talk, but now, seeing them, I am assured that I have come to the right place. Your parents must be so proud of you.” 


Vaibhav wryly grinned. Nowadays he falls short of patience to explain to humans the dynamics of relationships that he shares with his dad. 


“I have heard you can draw the past or forthcoming face. I craved to have a glance at my Lory when she would be 18 or 19 years old.” He spoke, with words falling out. 


“That's a huge leap of ages, Mr. Chatterjee, but I will bring my best brushes to work for you. I will take longer than usual.” He saw Amrityanshu’s face grow in hints of impatience before it dissipated. 


“After all, your daughter is so pretty. I hope I can draw her in my landscapes.” He said, looking at Lory, who chuckled. Her dry lips parted away to broken teeth and blank spaces in her mouth. 


“I will pick up four sittings. Now I will start the art. Next will be tomorrow at 7am.” declaring this, he got up to collect his weapons. 


 By the moment he finished, Lory had already gobbled four dairy pints of milk and was holding 3 more. He gently moved his hand over her head. 


 The next day, Vaibhav awakened with a little more enthusiasm. He prepared his ground and squatted, waiting. 30 past 7. Lory ran into Tulika. He bent down and lifted her. He endured an attachment to her. Presumably, if he had a girl, she would be like her. 


“She was sleeping so peacefully; I dint discern to wake her up. Sorry for forcing you to wait.” He mentioned apologetically. 


“No problem.” 


He put Lory down and went to his hot seat. 


 After finishing the second sitting, when he kept his brush down, Lory ran faltering to meet her future self. She twisted her cheek. Vaibhav grinned at her reaction. 


“Tomorrow you will understand. Come! today I will show you my toys.” 


She held Vaibhav’s one finger and wandered. Vaibhav had drawn many sketches, but the connection with Lory was passionate and soulful. He liked playing with her. He gave her his toys, to which Amrityanshu said, 


“There is no need for it.” 


But Lory was already out of the room holding one leg of a doll and a car in the other hand. They both giggled. 


 The third sitting was after two days at 10am. When the clock said 12 pm and they dint show up, impatient Vaibhav asked Radhe for their number. But the landline only rang. 


Have they skipped? he thought. 


“Did you save their address?” He charged. 


Radhe viewed Vaibhav with guilt-soaked eyes. He has again neglected to check the address. 


 Amrityanshu and Lory showed up after two days. 


“Where were you?” Vaibhav babbled. 


“Sory babu,” he said. 


But Lory’s blooming smile had already pacified Vaibhav. She paused, hugging his leg. He hoisted her and handed over her a dairy farm milk, which she avidly snatched. 


 When he glanced up at the edge of the session. Lory was deep asleep. Mr. Chatterjee raced as if measuring each step with years and came to stand behind Vaibhav. He stared at the portrait for one full moment before Vaibhav turned back. His tears were falling on his shoulder. Before he could say anything. Lory woke up. She walked hobbling, 


“I don’t look like this. She has such beautiful, long hair. Watch at her teeth. They are arranged so beautifully and they aren’t cracked as well. That dress won’t look wonderful on me.” She complained. 


He picked up her to his lap and declared, “You will look like this. Like a princess.” 


Lory has always made him perceive that he had made the right decision. The decision of painting. The smile on her face, the time that they spent collectively, were moments Vaibhav always reminisced. 


 “Can we conclude the painting today or by tomorrow? We are going out of the station. Lory is not quite.” Mr. Chatterjee has hailed to ask. 


“Actually, after you left, I received an invitation memorandum from the academy of arts, to participate in their exhibition. I was about to call you to announce we will have to postpone tour dates.” There was a hushed silence from the other end. 


“Mr. Chatterjee, I will join back soon and the initial task after returning is to achieve the landscape. The silhouette of it is almost complete. It won’t take considerable age.” 


 “Okay” It seemed like the view was happening from a distance, maybe from another realm. 


 The cry was saying a lot of things, but Vaibhav’s mind was previously in a hustle to meet his ancient buddies. Show his most extraordinary canvases, and his teachers would be really honored by him. Indeed, Mr. Marcus Auster, an internationally renowned painter, is also showing up. His excitement was uncontainable. And that happened as thoroughly. He was greeted with respect and embrace. He was hailed on stage to speak and thousands of societies were stunned listening. He was admired with awards and adorned with gifts. Even Mr. Auster loved his murals and asked him to join him in his new venture. They became wonderful companions in a brief period. Together they traveled to Agra, Lucknow, and Jaipur, where Vaibhav proudly arrayed India’s bewitching art and culture. 


When he returned, his one-week trip had become a month trip. But this time, his father didn’t walk away. 


‘Well, that is an improvement. He smirked to himself proudly.      


He asked Radhe to call Mr. Chatterjee. He needs to seriously apologize for his delay. But their line was dead. 


Days passed; other sketches captured Lory’s stand. The remorse of not being able to accomplish the composition was slowly fading. He settled in front of the incomplete painting one more time when Radhe came. 


“Babu, a letter has reached for you.” 


He picked up the memorandum and squatted down. 


 “I know I can’t measure your design, but how much do I have to pay?” Mr. Chatterjee had claimed in their early meeting. 


“Mr. Chatterjee, my paintings hold me. I can’t put a price tag on them. My dad has consistently notified me that you will want money. Someday you will realize the importance of accreditation. But honestly, I am contented in Tulika, where I can give humans time and make them cheerful. 


“But I should compensate you for something.” 


 Vaibhav had peered at Lory and said, 


“You pay according to your yearning after the painting is completed,” 


The envelope had a blank cheque and two photos with a postcard. The back of the photo read: 


“Bhaiya, this is for you, so that you will not forget me. I will miss you.” 


 


He unfolded the letter. 


“Vaibhav babu, 


Lory craved me to deliver you her pictures. She spoke, after she dies, everybody will overlook her. So, she should drop her picture to everyone important. She requested me to send you two pictures. You have invested a lot of love and effort into generating my Lory’s landscape. How could I grant you to show me what I can never see now? So, I am sending you a blank cheque. I pleaded with Lory to wait, but she slipped away through my fingers like sand. I aspire we could wrap up that painting… but thank you. 


The pale paper was stained with drops of tears. 


His heart cramped at the postcard he held in his hands. In the picture, Lory stood grinning. He could realize her limping. Her eyes were shrunken, covered by black circles. Her withered lips sought like bleeding. Her bald face still stared like Lily but wilted. 


“What has he done?” 


After all, on the edge, he preferred the same point as his dad. He could see his father’s portrait on the wall grinning. 


“Look, I advised you.” 


He never demanded to be more than an artist. But on his path to search for art in amateur places, he had lost his way to the grinds of the world or he has overlooked what he mentioned in his first fight. 


I just fancy painting. 


‘No Vaibhav, you covet honor, praises, claps just like your dad.’ 


He cursed himself for his lack of attentiveness to signs. But time had already eloped, and he had chosen his trail. 


 The incomplete landscape of Lory will consistently hang among the executed ones, in the shades of Tulima.

——————————————————————


Takeaway: We fall into the same trap that we object to emphatically; power, prestige, and capital. To resist is godly, but to align is humane.


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