The Artist

 Imagine this, the curtain rises and there he stands with a paintbrush in his hand. The mount board is empty, not a speck of paint on the bright white of the material. He starts to dream, his hands begin to move and the orchestra begins. He is the conductor leading the musicians to their glory. The musicians are the paint and the final glory is his painting.

The spotlight moves to the background. There lies a tabla on the floor, its body covered with dust. From the background comes a voice of a woman singing to her son. He moves towards the tabla, his paintbrush still in his hand. He sits down and begins to play. Dhum tak tak dhum tak tak, he plays on as the woman continues to sing.

The spotlight moves again. There is a river and he is sitting on a rock, the fishing rod in his hand. The fish leaps as they swim in the flowing water. He has just finished bathing and is staring at the sky and making shapes from the clouds. There comes a shout from the distance, someone is calling to him. ‘Khelte kokhon aashchish?’ say the boy who is shouting from the distance. He shouts something back but it is unintelligible. He gets up and walks to the cluster of sugar canes in the corner. He breaks of a branch and munches as he walks towards his friend.

There is a field on which he is playing. The football is not a football but a bathabi lebu, which they use as a ball so that they can play. They have only ever heard on the radio, the matches between Mohun Bagan and East Bengal. They run to the corner shop and ask for a logence. The old meshomoshai gives it to them but threatens to tell their mothers. He eyes the ripe mangos hanging from the tree in his schoolteacher’s garden. He nudges the boy beside him who nudges the one beside him and so, in a matter of seconds, a group of hungry boys stare at the mango hanging from the tree. They climb the wall, careful not to make any noise. One boy climbs the tree and throws down mango after mango as the boys catch. He drops one by mistake and it makes a loud plop sound. They run as their teacher chases them. None of the other mangos are dropped. He sits hidden in his fathers boat and eats so many that the next day he gets a stomach-ache.

The spotlight is now on him as he stares out of the window in his childhood room. He watches as the colours of the sky change in every passing hour. It first turns red then orange, blue, purple, yellow and finally the darkest blue. There is no end to the colours of the sky he says to himself as he watches the stars twinkle in the dark. The insects chirp happily, as if in agreement. There is a bird sitting on the branch near the window. It sings and he falls to dreamy sleep.

It’s the day of his annual exam, he has forgotten. The only thing on his mind is the kite that is flying high in the sky. The wind is blowing and he feels like he is on the clouds that are passing by. His father runs at him, screaming. They go to principles office and after a lot of pleading he is promoted. The next day, he is back to flying his kite. His father sighs in exasperation. His mother smiles at her son’s mischief but scolds him when he comes home.

The spotlight returns to the conductor with his musicians. The painting is finished. The dream has ended. We look at the painting and try to catch a glimpse of that dream as the curtain falls. The lights go out and we sit in the dark wondering if it was a memory or dreams of memories.