Un-palette-able

Every evening, Mini would hold on to the banisters of her verandah and stare at the majestic eagles soaring past the ten-storeyed buiding that towered above the four-storeyed one in which she dwelt. She was delighted whenever the brown-winged bird of prey perched itself on the clothesline jutting out of her balcony. The day graciously passed on the baton to the smouldering twilight sky, which grew dimmer, serving as a cue to each household to turn on its artificial lights. The curious voyeur in Mini now explored the contents of every open window and verandah.

She was quite surprised to see studious boy Titil take interest in anything other than what he did best: studying. He was one of those children who was determined to challenge the popular saying – All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy! For a boy who had hardly had any friends, his home turned into the favourite haunt for children, at least once every week. Mini binocular-ed her eyes to the best of her ability and the pieces of the puzzle now presented themselves in the form of a modest-looking man sitting in the midst of children busy with paper and pastels.

 Mini’s comrades got to work soon, making enquiries and coaxing their parents. Her own parents never discouraged the art of learning, and before long, Mini was ready to stroke her first canvas with colours of joy!

 Dilip Sir’s small stature hardly accounted for his immense talent. The ease with which his nimble fingers glided on canvas to contour even the most difficult of shapes left Mini and her comrades in awe of their down-to-earth teacher, a man of few words who never made any attempt at ostentation. From sketches to perfecting the use of pastel colours, Mini’s latent talent was being nurtured by able hands. She appeared for, and won most of the Sit-and-Draw competitions and soon became her teacher’s favourite. She was delighted every time Dilip Sir tested her with a tough painting. Mini’s sister soon followed in her footsteps, caring little for her parents’ consent this time. After all, who doesn’t have the right to paint, the right to add a little colour to the otherwise humdrum life, the right to dab the blank pages of life with verdant green, ivory black, and carmine red, the cobalt blue of the sky and the Prussian blue of the water, the yellow ochre of the huts and the lemon yellow of the fruits, the right to know the subtle variation among violet, purple, lilac and mauve – all obtained by mixing red and blue, in a box full of twelve shades, ‘white’ being used the least?

 Many portraits, landscapes and still life-s later, Mini had just stepped into her adolescence when Dilip Sir started taking classes in her house, Mini’s mother being the most attentive audience to the host of budding artists, the best of them being her two offspring, which everybody knew. Mini had now completed her Junior Diploma in Fine Arts. She and her sister appeared for Practical examinations every year, conducted in one of the traditional sprawling homes of North Calcutta. Mini also enjoyed pouring over her Theory book chronicling the history of art in India. She was now familiar with the names and achievements of Ramkinkar Baij, Raja Ravi Verma, Jamini Roy, Nandalal Basu and the likes. Having graduated to oil paints, she now appreciated the use of the colour white, more than any other, as it lent to every painting the verisimilitude that water colours and pastels had failed to offer. She even got an offer from her teacher to be an art tutor herself once she completed her masters in Fine Arts. She learnt from her teacher that the Final Year would involve the most difficult form of still life – the human body. She had often wondered how such a great artist could be employed by nothing more celebratory than the Calcutta Tram Company. Whenever Mini thought of trams, she pictured a slow vehicle dressed in a drab coat of paint, covered with crude advertisements. She wondered what work he must be doing there.

 It was year 2002 when Mini’s father decided to sell off their cramped flat and shift to a spacious. Her art teacher graciously agreed to visit their new home, even if it meant teaching just the two sisters. The art classes continued. He lived so far away, in Andul, Howrah that Mini had never had a chance to visit his home and meet his wife and daughter. She was only fifteen, months away from her school-leaving examination when she, reluctantly, had to lend a helping hand to moving all the bag and baggage to her beautiful new home, in new surroundings, amidst new people, leaving behind all her comrades, all her memories, in a small but much-loved house that once smelt, quite addictively, of distilled turpentine, used to cleanse her linseed oil-laden palette of colours.

 Much happened that Dilip Sir was oblivious to. The buyers of Mini’s former home had been handed over the keys and papers before they made the full payment to Mini’s father who had trusted them. Her beautiful new home reeked of betrayal and tears, and was frequented by the landlord with his army of lawyers who drained her father of his last penny and forced them to vacate the home.

 In yet another homemoving that happened in a span of a few months, much was lost, one such object being a diary that contained important phone numbers. Exiled and isolated, Mini did not even have the money to splurge on anything colourful. Life had taught her to be content with her supply of basic needs, and though the Right to Paint was a birthright by all means, it was far from being a basic need. Years later, she discovered that her mother had chosen not to save that diary after all. What would she tell Dilip Sir? Isn’t it a shame that they have to keep shifting?

 Mini could only imagine the rude shock her art teacher must have felt when he walked away from the door of their partly-gained and completely-lost household – the red of his astonishment, the black of his sorrow, the pale white of his helplessness.

 Five rented homes and endless tutoring efforts later, Mini, struggling to make ends meet, realized that if she had managed to contact her art teacher, she would not have to hunt for students to teach academic subjects to; she could easily have taken Dilip Sir’s offer and that would ensure a steady source of pocket money, and help her continue her pursuit of art. She was surprised at how her art of minimalist living had affected her priorities: money before passion.

As she stared blankly at the city she called her home, the city that had robbed her of all the colours that formerly tinted her life, she saw something she had never even dreamed of, and it was not going to be the only one of its kind: a tram bearing illustrations of the historical places of her city. She knew that if the illustrator knew the complete truth about her, perhaps he would pioneer a genre of art and christen it, the art of hiding the truth!

Mini sighed as she tried desperately to rub off the red ink that had tainted her fingers while she was correcting a copy. She rubbed the bags of her eyes puffed by years of incessant lachrymal secretion but her dark circles were there to stay. Not everything can be corrected – that’s the art of living, in an unpalatable reality. Mini stared back at the tram, fancying if she would ever get the opportunity to learn the art of creating the chiaroscuro effect – the perfect balance of light and shadow, the two essential constituents of reality – only if she could splurge on charcoal sticks, paint boxes and a big wooden palette, white in colour.

After all, who doesn’t have the right to paint, the right to add a little colour to the otherwise humdrum life, the right to dab the blank pages of life with verdant green, ivory black, and carmine red, the cobalt blue of the sky and the Prussian blue of the water, the yellow ochre of the huts and the lemon yellow of the fruits, the right to know the subtle variation among violet, purple, lilac and mauve – all obtained by mixing red and blue, in a box full of twelve shades, ‘white’ being used the least?