"I'm sorry sir but we cannot display your works of art here" a crisp feminine voice carried the message swiftly to him. It was the manager of the Pundole Art Gallery, Bombay.
"I suppose i can ask why's it that my works aren't seen fit for this gallery, or is it the other way round?" the doctor lost his usual calm demeanor and sounded on the verge of demanding an apology, and not sound apologetic.
Artists were a sentimental lot in addition to being creative. But business was a priority if survival mattered. And survival was guaranteed only to the fittest. Inheriting her father's keen business acumen in addition to the gallery, the manager and owner of the gallery knew exactly what her clientele sought. The doctor's menu clearly didn't fit the bill.
"I'm sorry sir but we feature 'art nouveau', creative expressionism. Traditional portraits would go against our theme. Perhaps you could try and Kapoor's at Colaba...?"
"But madam, let me show you some of my better works and perhaps you might be convinced...?" The anger had subsided into what sounded like a meek plea. Plan B, the tear jerker strategy i suppose...?
"I do not have time for this sir. Heartfelt apologies for being curt..."
Outside, footsteps could be heard plodding into the distance.It wasn't easy to take a hit and walk back briskly. Not when the doctor was 70 summers young. And the doctor hated taking no for an answer.
Doctor Who, if we may choose to call him so was a paediatrician of local repute in his neighbourhood of Bandra; at a time when Bandra was qualifiable as a neighbourhood of Catholics, Koli and a smattering of Parsees, Brahmins among others. The advantage of being born 70 summers ago wasn't lost on the doctor; his patients were local residents who'd been visiting his clinic for three generations.
He spent little time at practice these days, preferring to ease time before a canvass instead of the clinic, paintbrushes replacing the stethoscope and thermometer. Back home, the setting sun coloured the sky a deep shade of red, rich and deep; and the doctor was enjoying the while. A piano played swiftly in the background and the doctor played God on the canvass.
Matching tempo with the piano, the paintbrush moved deftly; poetry in motion one could say. A portrait was taking shape. Colours dissolved and fused together to create something they could've never achieved in isolation; symphony. Would it be fitting to say a violin sang over the deep rumble of the piano...?
The track had long since ceased to play but Dr. Who was too far lost in rapture to care anymore. What seemed like a melange of colours took form and shape of a woman; a woman lost deep in thought. Heaven and the doctor alone knew what was she contemplating but that's beyond the point.
Unbeknowst to the doctor, another woman had been waiting for what seemed like a while for him. She maintained a measure of silence and distance from him quietly aware of his need for space and thought. Yet, she was close enough for the doctor to make her presence felt.
"Trust its about time for dinner now? Are there any phone calls i need to respond to now...". The doctor responded without turning back. Years of living together makes communication almost effortless, provided all the individuals understood and respected one another's way of life.
"Just about time now for you to head out to Prithvi Theater today, trust you forgot about it? If you begin now, you'll be in good time to reach the venue before the evening program ends! Of course, you begin after having dinner."
"Heheheh, it's about time then, eh wifey? Time for dinner and dessert." Paint smudged and slightly coloured; the doctor sat down to pay respects to fish curry and steamed rice. Never mind the evening show at Prithvi, he had business of his own. A nibble of roshho golla and he was on his way.
Driving upwards toward Bombay's northern suburbs had long since ceased to be an option in the evenings. Traffic snarls, rash motorists and and endless stream of pedestrians making, snaking and sneaking into just about every possible squeeze of space meant driving was at best left to a professional driver. And the doctor hated to allow anyone drive his beloved Fiat. Clearly, it'd be the rickshaw to Juhu today.
It was a Monday, the last Monday of the month and the Vikalp documentary had just ended. The doctor waited patiently outside as if on cue to receive someone whom he knew among the audience. It seems he knew the organizer of the Vikalp documentaries.
"Excuse me miss, but can you tell me if Prithvi Theater can display my works of art...?". There were always questions and queries but mostly regarding Vikalp and its screenings. She turned around to look him in the eye. The weather had taken its toll but the eyes nonetheless retained a childish glimmer.
"Prithvi focuses on theatrical art sir and not art exhibitions. I wish i could help you..."
If there's one thing the old man refused to take for an answer; it was a no. "Perhaps Prithvi could help organize a screening of my portraits? I could arrange for a slide show if that be so. Here miss, have a look at my paintings."
As much as decency and kindness mattered, time too was of essence and more so because time was precious. "Perhaps you could give me your email address and i'll revert back to you sir...? There's the Kabir festival where you can try if they'd accept your work. I'll connect you with the organizers."
He scribbled out his email address onto a random business card, thanked the young girl and just as quietly as he'd materialized, dematerialized into the immediate surroundings. Just another man in a melee of people, just another artists in the world of exhibitionists out there.
Just another old man who refused to take no for an answer...
"I suppose i can ask why's it that my works aren't seen fit for this gallery, or is it the other way round?" the doctor lost his usual calm demeanor and sounded on the verge of demanding an apology, and not sound apologetic.
Artists were a sentimental lot in addition to being creative. But business was a priority if survival mattered. And survival was guaranteed only to the fittest. Inheriting her father's keen business acumen in addition to the gallery, the manager and owner of the gallery knew exactly what her clientele sought. The doctor's menu clearly didn't fit the bill.
"I'm sorry sir but we feature 'art nouveau', creative expressionism. Traditional portraits would go against our theme. Perhaps you could try and Kapoor's at Colaba...?"
"But madam, let me show you some of my better works and perhaps you might be convinced...?" The anger had subsided into what sounded like a meek plea. Plan B, the tear jerker strategy i suppose...?
"I do not have time for this sir. Heartfelt apologies for being curt..."
Outside, footsteps could be heard plodding into the distance.It wasn't easy to take a hit and walk back briskly. Not when the doctor was 70 summers young. And the doctor hated taking no for an answer.
 | |
| Dr. Who for you |
He spent little time at practice these days, preferring to ease time before a canvass instead of the clinic, paintbrushes replacing the stethoscope and thermometer. Back home, the setting sun coloured the sky a deep shade of red, rich and deep; and the doctor was enjoying the while. A piano played swiftly in the background and the doctor played God on the canvass.
Matching tempo with the piano, the paintbrush moved deftly; poetry in motion one could say. A portrait was taking shape. Colours dissolved and fused together to create something they could've never achieved in isolation; symphony. Would it be fitting to say a violin sang over the deep rumble of the piano...?
The track had long since ceased to play but Dr. Who was too far lost in rapture to care anymore. What seemed like a melange of colours took form and shape of a woman; a woman lost deep in thought. Heaven and the doctor alone knew what was she contemplating but that's beyond the point.
Unbeknowst to the doctor, another woman had been waiting for what seemed like a while for him. She maintained a measure of silence and distance from him quietly aware of his need for space and thought. Yet, she was close enough for the doctor to make her presence felt.
"Trust its about time for dinner now? Are there any phone calls i need to respond to now...". The doctor responded without turning back. Years of living together makes communication almost effortless, provided all the individuals understood and respected one another's way of life.
"Just about time now for you to head out to Prithvi Theater today, trust you forgot about it? If you begin now, you'll be in good time to reach the venue before the evening program ends! Of course, you begin after having dinner."
 |
| This is Paul Wood's Woman in Waiting |
Driving upwards toward Bombay's northern suburbs had long since ceased to be an option in the evenings. Traffic snarls, rash motorists and and endless stream of pedestrians making, snaking and sneaking into just about every possible squeeze of space meant driving was at best left to a professional driver. And the doctor hated to allow anyone drive his beloved Fiat. Clearly, it'd be the rickshaw to Juhu today.
It was a Monday, the last Monday of the month and the Vikalp documentary had just ended. The doctor waited patiently outside as if on cue to receive someone whom he knew among the audience. It seems he knew the organizer of the Vikalp documentaries.
"Excuse me miss, but can you tell me if Prithvi Theater can display my works of art...?". There were always questions and queries but mostly regarding Vikalp and its screenings. She turned around to look him in the eye. The weather had taken its toll but the eyes nonetheless retained a childish glimmer.
"Prithvi focuses on theatrical art sir and not art exhibitions. I wish i could help you..."
If there's one thing the old man refused to take for an answer; it was a no. "Perhaps Prithvi could help organize a screening of my portraits? I could arrange for a slide show if that be so. Here miss, have a look at my paintings."
As much as decency and kindness mattered, time too was of essence and more so because time was precious. "Perhaps you could give me your email address and i'll revert back to you sir...? There's the Kabir festival where you can try if they'd accept your work. I'll connect you with the organizers."
He scribbled out his email address onto a random business card, thanked the young girl and just as quietly as he'd materialized, dematerialized into the immediate surroundings. Just another man in a melee of people, just another artists in the world of exhibitionists out there.
Just another old man who refused to take no for an answer...
Very well written piece....good mastery over the language without being flowery - and a touch of gentle poignancy and humour.Being a Pediatrician myself (younger, and bereft of such talents), I got totally engrossed. Enjoyed the read.
ReplyDeleteYou have a natural flair. clearly well thought of, with the doc just like all creative people loving good food as much as his art and all the more wanting people to notice.
ReplyDelete