The Artist

                

                           

The Artist sat on a jutting rock at Digha beach. He had perched himself in a most comfortable position overlooking the sea, bringing with him his paintbrushes and his hand-made paper as he meant to capture the beauty of the setting sun in vivid colors. The solo exhibition of his paintings would be displayed in Birla Academy and he was hoping he would be able to sell some of his exhibits at the show.

Unfortunately, the trend was painting Abstract Art and Peter felt that it was not art at all --anyone could just smear a few colors on the canvas and then give it an inner meaning-a meaning so subtle that it could be appreciated and understood only by the painter himself. But he would paint what his heart dictated, something pleasing to the senses and was difficult to depict. It was a herculean task to bring out the magnificence of nature by a few strokes of the brush, and that was Art according to his connotation.

He pressed out dollops of color on his palette, applied blue-green and grey on the canvas and then surveyed the effect. He seemed to be pleased with the outcome and then began studying the horizon with full concentration as if to imprint what he was seeing permanently in his mind.

The beach was teeming with people. The pale golden sand was glistening in the mellow sunlight. The entire expanse was dotted with holidaymakers, vociferous and exuberant in their excitement. Colorful umbrellas decked the beach, and ladies lazily sprawled on multi-colored mats. There were bare –bodied vendors pacing up and down hopefully offering coconuts to those just enjoying the summer breeze. It was at this time that it happened---an episode that would change the artist’s life.

There was a mysterious guttural sound coming from the depths of the sea as if some gigantic monster had been provoked to rage. It grew louder and menacing and the sound reverberated booming in the bizarre surrounding. No one could make out what was happening. Panic-stricken and dumb-founded the merry-makers now stood still in wonderment.

From the distance, one could see a mountain of water advancing, threatening disaster and destruction. The terrified onlookers knew there was no way to escape- only a resigned submission to one’s fate was the only option. They held onto each other in paralyzing fear-so stricken were they that even a scream was not heard. Nearer and nearer came the howling, growling, roaring, galloping monster with giant strides, frothing, spitting and snarling.

The sea changed color from morbid grey to ink-blue and then an unnatural black. The towering mountain of water burst onto the beach and covered it with foam. There were shrieks and shouts and panic-stricken cries, there were rushing and splashing and last-minute effort to escape, but all in vain. The voracious demon swallowed greedily whatever came in its path.

The earth shook in unison and the sea wreaked havoc in reckless abandonment. The waves rose twenty feet, uncontrolled in their wrath and fury and sucked the traumatized humans into their depths.

The Artist had noted that the sea looked strange when he was trying to study the effect of sunlight on the water. As he watched he was the first to see the advancing wall of water.

He had then and there quickly anchored himself behind the rock and held on to it fast in a vice-like grip. The waves came surging over and over again and covered him with a thick mantle of water. Peter tried not to breathe in case the water rushed into his lungs. He felt he could not hold on to the rock as his hand was slipping. The pressure of the water was so intense that his hands would be wrenched out of the sockets.

With every lap of the waves, solid matter hit his sensitive body like missiles. He had lost all sensation as a result, and he had become numb to pain. Gritting his teeth, tenaciously he held on. As the waves receded, he tried to get his bearing but the water level had become too high. He tried to swim; somehow he managed, and went further up and held on to a tree. Slowly the water level came down.

It seemed to him that it had taken ages. Darkness had descended by now. A half-sickle moon could be seen in the somber sky, but nothing else was visible. Peter could not tell when he had also lost consciousness. When he managed to drag himself up, it was only for a few seconds for he fell again in a heap. He looked around through his blurry vision. All he could make out was sprawled out bodies and debris. Everything was still—there was absolutely no movement, a grim image of devastation.

The Artist again made a brave effort to get up, it was indeed brave as it seemed that he had been subjected to merciless thrashing or lashing by a heartless master--- such was his bodily condition. He decided to go home, but which way to go, he had become disoriented. He limped his way out of the milieu and proceeded step by step, doddering and tottering, staggering and stumbling, sometimes knocking over broken shreds of huts or falling prostrate due to lack of energy.

As he tried to wind his way through the rubble, he tripped over something soft. When he looked down, he was astounded to see a baby stuck underneath the remains of a shattered boat. His first reaction was to ignore it but a moment later his conscience got the better of him. He was unable to stand and carry himself, how could he pick up the baby! He looked at the baby to see whether there was any sign of life--- he felt the body was still warm. He examined the pulse and found it beating faintly. Reluctantly he picked up the little burden. It was a boy, about a year and a half old.

                     Very slowly he wended his way home. He had to take rest on the benches flanking the roads, for the effort of carrying the child proved too much for him. After all, it had been a strenuous tussle with the sea. He could not figure out what to do with the child. For the present, he knew that both of them needed something to eat. The infant had stirred in his arms and had clutched his finger in a tight grip.

He had tried to soothe him and had also spoken to the babe in a comforting tone. He wanted to buy some bread and butter, but all the shops were closed. So the only option was to go home and prepare something for the baby and himself. By the time he reached his flat, the child whom he had given the name Arnold, had started to talk. The boy was in a state of trauma.

Over and over he went on saying, “Don’t leave me---don’t leave me again. “Being a bachelor, he did not know much about children. But he knew that the child should be covered otherwise he would catch a chill. He wrapped him up in his big bath towel and then tried to prepare some food. It proved to be a very difficult task because the child would not leave his lap. .After feeding him an egg, he put him on the bed and Arnold dozed off, still holding his finger in a tight grip.

                         The next day, Peter knew he had to notify the police that he had brought home a child whom he had found on the beach. But the baby, out of his limited vocabulary only went on repeating over and over again, ’don’t leave me’ as if he could not get over his experience and be panic-stricken. On the other hand, the artist was surprised to find that he was enjoying the child’s company--- bathing him and buying shoes for his dimpled feet.

The novel experience gave him a strange satisfaction. It did not take him long to become the little one’s trusted friend. Peter bought a ball and a hockey stick and they went out to parks and had fun together. Arnold would invariably first thrust his ice-scream stick into the Artist’s mouth before he would take a bite. When the Artist took out his paints, the child kept him company and scribbled on his book with multi-colored crayons.                         

                The police came and took a photograph of the child and inserted it in the papers so that any relative of the child could know about his whereabouts. Day after day elapsed but no one came to claim him. In his heart of hearts, Peter was very happy and relieved because he had become very fond of Arnold. 

It seemed that he could not exist without him. If the boy had to be taken away from him, he would not be able to bear the separation. He loved to hear his gurgling laughter and listen to his baby gabble. For some reason or the other the child called him ‘Lolo” and Peter seemed to like it---it sounded so sweet and it was music to the artist’s ear.         

                One day Peter was trying to feed the child an apple when the phone rang. It was in the police department. A lady had made inquiries about a baby and the details seemed to tally with Arnold. The Artist felt as if someone had squeezed his very life out of him-----he felt so deflated. The lady had not been in town for the past two months, as after hearing about the tsunami, the lady’s parents had come and forced her to go with them. They would not let her stay on alone, more so after knowing she had lost her child.

She had tried very hard to come back to Digha but her parents would not hear of it. In her heart of hearts, she had a feeling that her baby was still alive. Now she had no one to call her own. Her baby was her world...        That evening she was in her small hut next to the beach. She had started living there for the last two years when she was going to have her baby. Her parents had advised her to abort the baby when it was still in the womb, but she would not hear of it.

Valerie and David were very much in love when they were studying together at the University. David had taken advantage of her trust and the result was that she had conceived. But as soon as he had come to know about her condition, he had cut off all connections with her and had got married to a top Executive who was drawing a substantial salary. Maria---that was her name. Though Valerie felt humiliated and brokenhearted, she decided to keep the baby, as at least the baby would be hers.

She had to leave Kolkata to save herself from further shame, and she had settled down in Digha away from society. That evening she had gone to the kitchen to boil some milk for the baby, and in a matter of minutes, the baby had disappeared with the tsunami. Somehow or the other she had been able to save herself by hanging on to a pillar. There were hardly any survivors and there was no chance of the child still living. Her parents would not even let her come to Digha thinking she would not be able to endure the ordeal of being at the site of the disaster. Valerie did not want to give up, hoping against hope.     

                    

. As Peter opened the door to the police officer and Valerie, the baby on seeing her, rushed to her with a loud cry ‘Mama’! It was enough evidence for the police that Arnold was indeed her son. After completing the formalities they left.

         Valerie possessively took her son in her arms, covered him with kisses and hugged him in a tight embrace. Tears rolled down her cheeks. She had miraculously got him back. Now she would never let him go. Quickly she made preparations to leave, in case he was snatched again from her. Peter’s heart sank. How was he to survive without his Arnold? 

Just so that he could have him for a little longer, just to be able to fill up his bag with all the toys and chocolates he had bought for him, Peter asked the lady to stay for lunch. Valerie knew she had no place to go as her hut had been washed away by the tsunami. It would be difficult without shelter for the time being. So she accepted his offer. The baby then got down from her lap and insisted that Lolo should pick him up.

                           It was as if two friends had met after a long time, Peter and Valerie started an animated conversation about the day to day incidents concerning Arnold. She was surprised to find herself confiding in the artist and telling him all about her past. But she was taken aback when on hearing about David’s deplorable behavior, Peter instead of sympathizing, said he was very happy. His countenance brightened up as if he had won the jackpot.

She looked at him puzzled. He then added in a very dramatic way, “Will you kindly allow your humble servant to give the child his name and to look after his mother with love and devotion for all his life. I would make an urgent request to you to marry me immediately as I just can’t wait to make both of you my very own.” Valerie looked at him for a moment to comprehend the enormity of what he was saying, and then without a word went into his outstretched arms.