Shrawan (July/August)
Rain, darling, is the most
alluring of magic.
I remember the quote from someone I
met years back as I watch confetti of rain droplets buffeting my window pane
right now. Well, the rain has me captive in my room, my cocoon, so I might as
well regale to you the story behind that quote.
The morning was damp with a light
drizzle. Now, most people tend to describe rainy mornings with words ranging
from sad to gloomy to boring, but, to me, rainy mornings were a blessing of
seclusion. Everything, every unwanted noise, every unwanted interaction
averted; for me rainy mornings meant I would skip school completely that day.
Now I would take off from home for school, lest I be reprimanded by my mother
but on rainy days school for me was the quiet solitude of Nadipur Park. I would
sit down before a vista of tortuous Seti rendered sentient by the sudden
downpour and the clear, actually sterile portrait of Manipal Teaching Hospital.
And I would draw into my sketchbook whatever I fancied.
The slick streets leading up to the
park were deserted, a recurring theme, whenever it rained. I closed my umbrella
when I reached the revolving gate and hurried inside as I spied a bus rounding the
corner ahead. I like my sprays when they're naturally falling from the sky and
not from under a screeching tyre.
On most days, I would be lone admirer
of the rain-gilded vista of Seti and Manipal from up here but today, it seemed,
I had company; a woman.
She was sitting in the spot I
usually sat on and was stretching her feet out to feel the string of rain
falling from the corner of the cemented awning above her onto her toes.
Flummoxed slightly by the unexpected visitor I looked around for another bench
to sit. She saw my hesitation, smiled and scooted over to make a spot for me. “I'm
sorry. Come over, please.” Her voice had a laughter imbued into it, made more
pronounced by the soft score the rain was playing in the backdrop.
I
smiled cordially and sat in the warm spot she had relinquished for me. The view
infront of us was a xerox of every other rainy day that I had sat here. I was
reluctant to take out my sketchbook, seeing that I was not completely by myself
this day. I sneaked a glance at her. She was wearing a starched brown kurtha
over a light sky-blue suruwal. Her hair was pulled back in a simple ponytail. I
also noticed an ochre crossbody handbag resting against the bench arm beside
her. I realized my school uniform must seem odd to her. She was staring
intensely at the corner of the awning spewing those stringy beads of water.
Engrossed as she was, I didn’t bother making small talk – and not discounting
the fact that I was too mystified to utter any word – I fished out a sketchbook
and a pencil from my bag.
“So,
you’re an artist, huh?” She flashed me a genuine smile. A smile that you’d want
to keep remembering. A smile I’ve drawn and redrawn countless times since.
“No,”
I said embarrassed. “I just sketch from time to time. Usually it’s on rainy
days.”
“I
see! What are you planning to draw on this rainy day, young painter? The deathly
beauty of the hospital, the wet cleavage of the hills or the frenzied river
below?”
“The
wet cleavage of the hills, that’s a good one,” I looked at her faint dainty
features smudged against the rainy background. “Well, I could paint you, only
if you didn’t already look like a painting.” I could not believe I said that.
To my ears, those were the words my mouth could not utter.
“Well,
thank you!” Her pursed lips were flushed pink. Suddenly, her black irises had
gathered an unnatural depth and her cheeks effused with a slight vermillion as
she said, “In that case, you could forge up a copy”
This
coy confidence of hers was as heady as staring down at a raging Seti. I knew my
own cheeks to be burning up with a mix of embarrassment and confession as I
replied, “Well, I cannot be done in one morning if I am to get all the
subtleties done.”
“If
so then when will your next sojourn to this place be, my forger?”
“I
come here on rainy days, that’s when I skip school and sketch here.”
“Only on rainy days? You sure you cannot
persuade your artsy self on other days”
“Well,
only rainy mornings to be precise.”
“Very
well, then, henceforth, this park bench will be our rendezvous on rainy
mornings.” Her shoulders convulsed as she feigned a haughty laugh. “So, tell
me, o disciple of Indra, you only sketch on rainy days?”
“Well,
not always,” I shrugged. “But there is something about the rain that inspires
me to create something.”
“Rain,
darling, is the most alluring of magic.” She said, with a flourish in her
iridescent eyes.
I
nodded, admiring the slight whirl in the rotating cogs of her pupils. As I did,
she without a pre-warning, launched into a soliloquy complete with lofty
gesticulation. It took me a moment to realize that it was a poem she was
reciting.
Let us ford this body of water
Let us voyage, you and I,
To the country of love, darling
To where there’s only our rules,
darling
Let us climb the uphill slopes
together
And likewise the downhill steeps
Together this path called life,
darling
The world is a cruel place
You can never trust anyone
Each other’s trust, darling
Imperishable will be our hearts
Let us impart, you and I,
This wisdom to the world,
darling”
Her face while she recited
the poem was as beautiful and as animated as those depicted on the temple
rafters. At the start of every line, her voice quivered with her lashes. Twin
weapons of her enchantment. Even the stochastic rain was beating a rhythmic
applause around us when she finished her poem.
I
was amazed. Among the countless things that assailed my senses all that I could
manage to say was, “Wow – you’re a poet.”
“Only
on rainy days,” she said simply. “Like you, my friend,” The sky overhead was
grumbling in a muffled cadence. “Now that I’ve shown something of myself, will
you requite the favour and let me savour a peek of your sketches you got
there?” There was a disarming childishness to her voice that rendered you
vulnerable.
“I
don’t think that’s a fair trade considering how beautiful your poem was.” I
yielded my sketchbook into her receiving hands.
“I’m
sure we’ll disagree on that.” She flipped open the sketchbook. I immediately
felt a sudden dread inside my chest, I’d never shown anyone my sketchbook, let
alone someone I’ve just met moments before. “I want to create whatever they say
I cannot,” She read out the handlettered quote on the first page of my
sketchbook. She followed it up with, “Do we have a sketch artist and a poet in our midst?”
“Well,
I won’t debate about the ‘poet in our midst’ part.” My insinuation elicited a
laughter from her.
The
first sketch was that of knitting instruments and a loose ball of yarn
depicting an abstract woman. “This is beautiful,” She exclaimed. “Don’t tell me
you knit as well”
“No,
madam, I do not.” I answered not timidly.
“Because
that would have been an overkill.”
Next
page was a water colour painting of the vista infront of us.
“This
is amazing,” was her common refrain as she flipped through the rest of the
random assortment of sketches and paintings. The paintings weren’t that good
but she wouldn’t stop showering them with compliments.
“Now you should definitely paint me.” She
said after reaching the last page and reflipping back to the first page.
“I
– ”
“I’ll
make you a deal,” she said with mischief colouring her eyes. “You draw a sketch
of me and I’ll write you a poem. How about that?”
I
pretended to think on it while all along I was just admiring her contagious
zeal. “Okay, but on one condition,” I said after a moment’s pause. “Well maybe
two. One: you cannot look at the sketch until I say it is complete. Two: I will
sketch you only when you are writing my poem.”
“Touché.”
She picked up her handbag and took out a small notebook and a pen. “Let’s get
started, young Picasso. And, oh, I won’t let you read your poem too until you’ve
finished up my sketch.”
“Don’t
worry I want you to read the poem to me after I hand over this sketch to you.”
“Alright
mister”
And
that is how I befriended a poetess.
