The Lake Still Flows..

I wish my eyes could paint pictures. The dazzling sun that cloaked the vast expanse of the sky in shades of vermillion as it sank deeper down the horizon into the severity of the oceans; the steep hillsides bathed in the richness of the fair green meadows; the jovially bleating lambs that dotted the valleys like priceless pearls; the bushy bundle of all-coloured roses, with their spellbinding charm and addictive fragrance; the dreamy streams cutting through the strongest rocks, with their ever-soothing trickle; the magical reflection of the snowy clouds in the clear waters, sheathed in a tint of mauve; the bushes adorned with the finest berries of the world and the buzzing bees of the forests; - all flashed past my mind in a jiffy. I thought back to the nights, I had spent on the shores of numerous rivers, each one unique in its own respects, but indistinguishable in the solace they seemed to offer. Many times have I felt my own thoughts drifting away with the waters that ended, god only knows where. Such nights were always drenched in a pleasant blue and made enchanted by the soft melody of the nightingales, lurking behind the bushes undercover….My thoughts brought me back to the present night; to the cold damp prison, whose four walls like the four messengers of death enclosed me in binding darkness. On the farthest corner of the wall nearest to me, stood the smallest window I had ever seen in my life - my sole access to the outer world. Through it entered the tiniest speck of sunlight that threw some light to my life during the summers, and through the same window, entered the coldest flow of air, that froze my senses during the winters, just like it did now. The chains of metal that restrained my hands, were at least for now, chains only on me and not on my thoughts….but it would soon be. Sometimes people are sentenced to death, not for crimes they have never committed; but simply because they are not meant to live longer.

If my eyes could paint everything it had seen, it would’ve dabbed all the vibrant shades of a rainbow on a single easel, outlined with streaks of silver and gold, to create some of the most beautiful sights life has ever shown me…….And I would’ve seen it still, instead of the monotonous blackness that engulfed me. But if there is one thing that four decades of life on this earth has taught me, it is this; - sometimes words can paint deeper images; deeper and darker than the deepest trenches. Words are like dealing with magic, magic that mix all potions of emotions to create charm, and magic that sometimes go wrong with too much of a potion, to create poison. And hence tonight, on my very last day in this world, I choose to paint the most beautiful moments of my life; the very meaning of my life for which I have always lived, with words black and white, just like the days I’d been witnessing for the past ten years.

These days I have very little to see and so I found out there are lots to hear. I am only too glad, because there is nothing as deceptive as your sight, for the truth lay beyond this illusion. Sitting here, more than once have I heard the jingling sound of anklets, and in my fancy I saw the footprints left behind in wet soil by a pair of tender feet. I don’t know why or how, but I always loved to hear it..and then it would go on reverberating in my ears, till it faded away with the setting sun..and after a few days it would rise again in my ears at dawn. It always reminded me of Miranda. She alone knew me and my art.

I met her on a cold night such as this. She might have been 11 at that time. The entire village of Namchi was shadowed by the gathering dark clouds, so thick that even the Himalayas disappeared behind them for a couple of hours. A strong gust continued to blow and in no time it was accompanied by a heavy downpour. I was sitting in my wooden shed, situated on the hillside, with a window overlooking the Kanchenjunga range. It was my favourite spot where I loved to sit in solitude, humming to a tune, while I worked on my next painting. An artist’s life is never too easy, so it’s just as well that she chooses a spot that inspire ideas. But little did I know back then that real inspiration was yet to come into my life. And it came in the form of a little, naive schoolgirl, with two neatly plaited pigtails and rosy cheeks. She had a disarming smile that defined her and even today I can see it blooming as freshly as a daisy in my memory. That day, she was coming up the hill, shivering beneath a bright blue Kashmiri shawl, carefully draped around her. Her face bore a terrified look and evidently she had lost her way in the dark. Judging by the set of primers she had with her, I assumed that she was on her way back home from school. Feeling sorry for the poor creature, I took her in and gave her warm replacements for her winter wears that had been drenched in the rain.

I gave her a chair next to mine, in front of an easel. For a few moments she kept staring at my work which was still underway. Then all of a sudden she gazed at me, wondering perhaps, if I could be trusted. I tried to put on my kindest face and asked her in a coaxing tone what her name was. She was too scared to reply. I asked her where she lived and enquired the names of her parents. But I got nothing out of her. So I let things be and continued with my work while she watched in silence. It must have been an awkward moment for her to sit with a complete stranger, watching the various antics she performed with paint tubes, brushes and water. But it was even more awkward for me, because I’d never been used to being observed while working. I had a few people who asked me for specific things to be painted for them. But none of them ever saw me working on those. They merely wanted the final look to be above their expectations. They couldn’t have cared for anything else, nor did they have the time to. But during those tough days, even such people were few. I had almost no buyers for my paintings and so, my artworks with time, became trifles that adorned my house.

By then the rains had subsided and I was wondering what I ought to do with the girl, when, through the window, I saw an old man approaching. Seeing him, the little child cried with joy and ran and hugged her grandpa. The poor man was taken aback by the sudden appearance of his granddaughter. When he didn’t find her for hours, he had come looking for her, afraid that she had taken the wrong route. A sort of evident relief washed over his face and his pleasure was indescribable. He had the same fairness and charming smile of his granddaughter and he stood embracing her. It was a beautiful frame. Mouthing a few words of gratitude, he, followed by his little girl, walked their way back and I worked my way through different colours.

The very next day, at the very same time, I was again engrossed in my work, giving finer outlines to all the leaves, when I saw her approaching. It was a very fine evening with a pleasant weather. She wore a light pink top and a bright crimson skirt with pink polka dots. Her long silky brown hair was tied beautifully with a piece of purple ribbon and it flew indolently, ruffled by the gentle breeze. This time, she hadn’t lost her way; instead she’d come that way just to see me, as I found out later. She had a bunch of freshly-plucked magenta rhododendrons pressed in her hands and her face looked as radiant as always. She came inside and placing the flowers as gently as she could on a table, she said softly:

“My name is Miranda,” then gazing intently at the dozens of paintings that were hung on the wall behind me, she said, “Aunty, you paint beautiful pictures,” and smiled wider.

“Is it.., But what makes you say it’s beautiful, dear ?” I asked her softly, curious to know what she might say.

“Because I see a life in each one of the them.” she said without waiting to think and I saw a flash of twinkle in her eyes. That’s all she said and I beamed. In my entire life, I couldn’t recollect a single compliment a person had given me on my work. There might have been one, but not so true and straight from the heart such as this. So she knew, I thought smiling inwardly, what it took to make a painting a real one.

“Do you paint? I asked her.

“I paint with my eyes.”

“Really! how do you do that?”

She looked at me for a second and grinned mischievously. Definitely this conversation was taking a friendly turn. I couldn’t help smiling along all this while.

“I never forget the beautiful sights I have seen,” Miranda replied. She had the very-confident tone of a person who knew only too well, what he was speaking.

Curious to know where this might take me, I asked her further, “And how do you say a sight is beautiful?”

“Aunty, just like your paintings, and just like the real nectar extracted from pure carnations, real beauty can be extracted only from something so pure and and true. They are seen with eyes closed, when one thinks of all that lie beyond the Himalayas.” she crooned innocently.

Her words glowed like carnations in my mind. From that moment I knew there was something different about that girl, something that stood out about her nature, like the gleaming moon among a thousand twinkling stars. And for the first time in my life, I found out someone who shared my same love for truth and beauty.

She stayed on for quite sometime, asking me what each one of my paintings meant. Apparently, she seemed to know that art is not merely a combination of colours, but even we artists mean something when we paint the most trivial of details. It felt wonderful to have someone listen to all the stories they had to tell. And she was indeed a dear, to hear all of those with much patience and admiration. When she’d left, I sat back and held my 4 inch long paintbrush. Gazing at my fingertips and at the paste of dark green that occupied the tip of my brush, I cognised and felt inspired by the fact that there existed at least one person in the entire world who valued my musings.

This soon became a routine for her and we grew closer with time. Everyday after school, she would walk up the hill, joyed at being able to let loose her fancies. She would sometimes stay longer than usual, risking a rebuke from her grandpa, so that she could finish off the stories she had intended to tell me. For a lone person like me, her visits meant everything. Everyday, when I saw the sun setting down on the world, in my heart the light of expectation would rise. The flowers she brought each day were a wholly different affair. Each day was marked by a new shade of rhododendron. Sometimes magenta, sometimes violet, sometimes turquoise and so on. And along with the flowers, she would also carry the memories of a bunch of beautiful sights she had seen. Though she had never been beyond the Himalayas, somehow, she had a clear idea of what existed beyond. Her imagination had taught her that. She was never at loss for ideas; nor were my paintings. It started exhibiting a new facet of the mountain ranges, which had hitherto existed only in someone’s imageries.

As she told me one day, she lived a little distance away from my place, with only her grandpa at home. She hadn’t many friends, and so naturally we two loners found company among ourselves. This continued for some years. In no time she too started painting with me and the passing of each day, marked the growing brightness of both Miranda’s paintings and the simplicity of our lives. Her paintings were always beautiful. They were not characterised by the perfection of her streaks, but rather by the heart and soul that was poured into its making. In this respect, she would definitely have surpassed the greatest artists of the world.

Make believe memories are created, whereas true, good memories happen. And our friendship happened just like that. During those times, I met few people who were interested in my pieces and were willing to buy it at a decent price. I had just the enough money to have my bread and keep myself going. I was beginning to run short of several shades, but getting a replacement was no option because they charged dozens for it in the markets. On one fine evening, as a matter of fact, Miranda asked me:

“Aunty, how many paintings would you dream of doing in your life if you had endless supplies of paint?”

“Maybe a million,” I replied nonchalantly. I was far too pre occupied with my mixing.

“So how will you paint further if you don’t get paint?” she asked in a concerned tone.

“Sometimes,” I started without looking up, “the limits we set for ourselves are harder to outlive than those which the world set for us. Let’s not limit ourselves dear,” she smiled into my eyes and so did I.

I don’t know whether that reflection made sense to either of us, but it surely did motivate both of us. No matter what happened, we were so happy living the lives we wanted that no one and nothing could tear the smiles off our faces. This pleasurable habit of continuous creativity, very cleverly concealed the sad life that lay beneath it. I have never to this day doubted that there might exist another profession, more priced and rewarding than this one which I loved so dearly. Miranda felt bad about having used up a share of my paints and kept on apologising. But I don’t know how a few dabs of paint could’ve made up for the changes she had brought forth in my life. And that fact seemed to offer her some comfort.

Several months passed and then one morning, a tall man in his twenties made his appearance at my doorstep. He wanted a portrait of himself painted. He had already seen some of my works and was even willing to pay five thousand rupees for it. It was undoubtedly a huge sum. I glanced at my pastel tubes. They had just the enough paint for yet another painting. I told him that I would let him know in the evening. And so he went down the hill and I retired to my shed. Gathering up my paint box and a small canvas, I set out towards the east. The sun shone brightly that day and the merry chirping of birds filled the sky. I stopped at a cold stream that ran near my house. Sitting down under the shade of a chinar tree, I quietly took in the sound of the gushing waters. I dipped my hands in the water, and felt calmed as it gently caressed them. For quite sometime, I sat spellbound in the silence, wondering how nature could be so at peace. A light wind blew and a chinar leaf fell into my lap. It was a very fine red leaf, one that could have been straight away used in a painting. Taking it in both my hands, I slowly let it float away with the roaring waters. I watched it keenly, as it flowed farther and farther away, till it grew out of sight. For a moment, the desire to let myself be a part of the flow and go round the world took possession of me. The coolness of the fresh waters would have been enough to keep me alive in my dreamy life. The very thought made me feel thirsty. And then, somewhere in the sky, a pigeon cooed. Suddenly remembering my purpose, I looked away, took out my canvas and started my work.

As I sat there, pouring all my imagination into the canvas, I thought of a day I’d spent with Miranda under the shade of the very same tree, which then stood almost bare in the freezing winter. It was twilight and we stared ahead, mesmerised by the gradient shades of purple and orange that filled the sky. It contrasted with the deep blue in our minds, whose coldness swept over us so harshly that we had to stay closer together to make it through. We sympathised with the chinar, who had to stand so bare and alone in the midst of the chilling weather. But I’m sure, branching out on top of the world, he would’ve certainly felt sorry for all those creatures below, who were missing out on a thousand worthwhile things in their speedy lives.

“What do you reckon, I ought to paint next?” I asked Miranda as I always did.

“Umm…Maybe a field full of roses?” That didn’t surprise me, because there was nothing she loved more than the day’s freshest flowers.

“And colour?”

“Aunty, what colour roses do you think we might find behind the Kanchenjungas?

“You might find yellow.”

“So what about you?”

“Ah yes, I will have to find that out for myself afterall -’’ I said dreamily, finding myself deep in some thought. “We’ll come here again, after a year, and see how nearer we are to knowing it. And then, as this same sun casts its pinkish glow throughout the sky, our roses shall take shape in one of those magical shades..”

Months passed before the eyes of my memory in a flash of seconds, halted at the present, and brought tears to my eyes. They fell into the lake I had painted, giving it a new sense of reality, that Miranda would have undoubtedly approved of. As an artist I’ve always believed that, when the emotions one very often contemplates over are given a chance to flow without restraint, they create some of the most beautiful artworks of man. I don’t know whether that day we dreamt of would ever come into our lives, but if it didn’t, this was certainly the best I could do.

Couple of hours had passed, but I didn’t mind it in the least, because this was supposed to be the best of my works. This definitely was one painting which meant the world to me. And it would only be fair that I did it with the utmost perfection and satisfaction. It was the picture of an expansive lake, filled with wholesome bloomed lotuses. On the banks of the lake grew dozens of dazzling red roses. It was indeed a confluence of my three favourite hues - pink, blue and red. The canvas was a frenzy of their different shades. And when the painting was finally done, on the petal of the biggest and most beautiful lotus, in golden letters, I painted:

The same water that runs through the streams,

Runs through our blood and veins.

The same water that holds the lotus aloft,

Brims through the petals of the freshly-bloomed roses.

And when the lakes reflect the melancholy of the world,

I can feel it in the throbbing of my veins.

Meanwhile the roses stand strong,

Inspired by the lotus,

Who amidst all sadness that surrounds it,

Smiles the brightest of all !

And thus, I made my way through the very last drop of paint. It was already evening and by the time I reached back in my shed, Miranda had come and so had the young man. For the first time in my life, I put down the request of a customer for reasons inexplicable. Once he had walked out of earshot, Miranda asked me,

“Aunty, if he wanted a painting, why couldn’t you have given him one? You could’ve bought a new set of paint with whatever money he had to offer!”

I couldn’t reply to her question. Instead I uncovered the painting which I had carefully wrapped in a sheet of white cloth and duly presented it to her.

“Take it, it’s for you,” I said smiling.

She clasped it in both her hands and looked longingly at it. To her it seemed worth a million pieces of diamond. Her tears overpowered her senses. She hugged me tightly and stood still for a few moments. I didn’t know what to think or say. So I remained silent and battled with my tears to stop it from overflowing. Miranda then spoke lightly:

“I will ask grandpa today, if he’d lend me a few notes to buy paint. I am sure he will, after seeing this one. And I’ll bring you a new set on my way tomorrow.”

I held her closer to me. The sincerity and affection that surfaced in her voice moved me greatly and cast a deep imprint in my mind, one that can never be worn off by the tricks of time.

“Miranda-” I started without daring to meet her eyes. “I’m leaving this place.”

Mouthing those words gave me the same feeling a person gets, when realisation abruptly gives a bang on the head. And I have good reasons to believe that Miranda felt it too.

With a frozen look she asked me, “Aunty, where are you going? And why leave such a beautiful place??” The very idea seemed absurd to her and she kept staring disbelievingly at me.

Gently taking both her soft hands in mine, I said as appealingly as I could,

“Look, I have no option but to go. I am leaving for my hometown tomorrow -” For a second I averted her gaze and stared blankly at the floor.

“I don’t know how far I can make it here. But I promise, I will return within a year or two, perhaps with lot more wonderful paintings for you.”

“You sure you’ll return?” Another streak of tear flowed down her bright blue eyes and vanished down into the ocean that filled my heart. It left behind only the ripples of longing; which later on, very unfortunately disappeared into the stillness that defined pain. By then I’d somewhat figured out the terrible verdict that awaited me. But I could have never let Miranda know it. I didn’t know what chance, a women having murdered someone in self defence and unable to prove herself, stood at the courts.

If I had the chance to see Miranda one last time, I don’t know how I’d have had the heart to tell her that we’d never see each other again. Back then, I didn’t know what she’d have done without me and I without her. I just couldn’t imagine what she’d have felt when she sat counting the days, with her new paint set, only to find that her companion had slipped away into the darkness, beyond the reach of her warm fingers. I visualised her face, brimming with hope and glowing with pride, wilt in a while like the primrose of dawn. It hurt to think. So I let my thoughts wash away, ignored and unattended, like the lump of pain that had formed in my throat. While the lantern of hope blazed in her mind, I sat here thinking of life that had been so beautiful despite the rains that drenched it often. And from those rains always arose a clearer perspective, whose beauty I see today in deprivation.

For a person awaiting a fate that would rip her apart from the greatest gem of life, crores of money meant nothing, let alone five thousand. And today, for a person awaiting death, in the coldest prison, these memories mean everything. As I pen it down, I can sense my hands trembling and feel my eyes welling, for these are words written in blood, smudged by tears and stung with hatred. But I consider it worth penning down, because often it’s not the success stories of people that inspire others, but the stories of failure that lurk behind the scenes of success. Successful people seldom look for inspiration; it is those who fail who look upto people, people whom they can relate to and feel relieved that they are not alone in this vast and cold universe.

I got up and went across to the tiny window at the corner, with the metal chains tugging mercilessly at my legs, that’d turned so powerless with lack of use. I plucked up the courage to glimpse the world one last time. Not that the window gave much of a view, but nevertheless, I looked through it. In the darkness there was almost nothing visible. But somehow I felt glad that it was still dark. I didn’t think I would be able to get myself to face the sun. And I didn’t want to even the next day, though I might never get another chance to do so. It is the darkness that had defined me all these years and now I simply couldn’t let the slightest ray of light undefined me. If it is my yearning to travel farther beyond the Himalayas that kept me alive all these years, it ceases never. In lives and years to come, including this very moment, I find myself drawing nearer. The spark of my life has become a matter of the past, but the fire is still ablaze and I don’t dare douse it, for I have taken plunge in an ocean whose depth I know not.

Once upon a time, two of nature’s painters gave colour to all that they loved and found they had added colour to their own lives. Sitting in the nests the tailor birds had weaved for us, we flew farther with our minds, perched on the wings of creativity. One bird left the nest forever, to see for herself the beauties that aroused her fancies. And as it flew higher and higher, my heart sank deeper and deeper in memory of something that’s lost forever.

Out of the distant darkness, I thought I suddenly heard a sound of screeching and the flying of feathers in all directions. In my mind I saw the image of an attacked raven, flailing helplessly, while a thousand streaks of umber, sienna and ash-black that formed dainty feathers, overclouded the canvas. A hundred visions flashed past my mind, and I felt as if my senses would give away any moment. Nature seemed to be sobbing uncontrollably and just like Miranda I too had now learnt to paint with my eyes. It’s ages since I last held a brush with my hands, but even today I can feel the urge and flair rushing forcefully up my fingertips. The lake I had painted still exists; in melancholy or not I do not know. But in my mind, it flows, swiftly and swiftly ever.