Andy, leave that wound alone. As if I didn’t feel sick enough already, thanks to Mom’s cookies.” Soumya grumbled as Andy continued picking at a scab, which hadn’t healed yet.
Both the girls were sitting on the parapet and watching people below. They were having a riot throwing tiny pebbles down, and ducking everytime the person turned around.
It was a breezy day, or rather as Andy put it ‘washed’. The rain had come and washed the whole of scalding Delhi properly, and now a light breeze was blowing casually.
“I think it’s fun.” Andy said stubbornly and continued picking at the wound. Soumya rolled her eyes. Trust Andy to do what she was told exactly not to do.
Just then a jarring voice rang through,
“ANINDITA! Didn’t I tell you not to sit on the parapet? When will you ever listen to me?”
“Never!” Andy replied cheerfully. Soumya sighed in exasperation. Andy would never grow up. At the age of sixty, she would still be the same obstinate girl, who will insist on roller-skating and climbing trees, which was suicidal at that age.
Andy’s mother came on the verandah looking a trifle exasperated. She had very little blame to be sure, as her daughter was the most difficult and rebellious child she had ever come across. She had thought that Soumya would have a calming effect on her, but even Soumya had failed.
“Girls, why don’t you go out? It’s a lovely day, and well....you’ll get into more trouble here if you stay longer.” Andy’s mother said tiredly.
“Fine, if you don’t want us around.” Andy said angrily.
“Good we straightened that out. And girls, please don’t talk to strangers.”
“As if we do that. Oh we might visit Old Cranky Artist.”
Her mother paled.
“Andy, no. He lives in a deserted little house. I forbid you. Understand me?”
Soumya intervened quickly and said,
“Auntie, don’t worry. We’ve never visited him before, I don’t see why we should now.”
“And don’t talk to strangers.” Andy’s mother said fiddling with her hankerchief.
“As if we do that.” Andy snapped.
“I’m not concerned about you. I feel sorry for the stranger.”
“Your mom’s funny!” said Soumya laughing as they walked through the crowded streets.
“From what angle? Now I have every intention of going and talking to strangers. Let’s see what happens then!” Andy said with the gleam in her eyes.
“You are so impossible, Andy. I still don’t understand why you are my best friend.”
“Yeah, and you are so cowardly. I don’t understand how you became my best friend!”
The girls were so engrossed in their bickering and quarrelling that they didn’t notice an old man shuffling along. They knocked right into him, and he fell on the ground breathing heavily.
Andy and Soumya ran to help him up. He stood up with difficulty, and picked up his oiled painting. He brushed it carefully, and grimaced at the children.
“You think you are funny eh? You can’t see where you are going eh?” he said stepping menacingly towards them.
Andy said defiantly,
“We are sorry we knocked into you. We didn’t mean to.”
The man grumbled some more. However, something else had caught hold of Andy’s attention. Her eyes fell on the painting. The painting was an elaborate affair. The colours, which Andy thought would never blend in, blended so perfectly, that it didn’t seem mismatched. There was a young boy sitting on the fence in the painting. The features were done so realistically, that Andy for the first time in her life felt a little frightened. She couldn’t understand how art could frighten her. After all, she had run away from rabid dogs, narrowly escaped being stung by a scorpion, and survived a car crash.
“It’s wonderful...” was all she could say.
The man’s anger vanished.
“You think so, do you?”
“I love the colours...and the features are drawn till the last detail.” Andy said in wonder.
Soumya stared astonished. She had never heard Andy talk like this.
“Thank you.” the man smiling more widely than ever.
“Can I come and see more of your paintings?” Andy asked rather nervously.
“Definitely. Come now itself. My maid has made some pudding, you can come and help me eat it.”
The old man bowed and walked away.
“What did you do?” Soumya hissed.
“What is it, Soumya? You don’t believe the rumors circulating about him, do you?” Andy said impatiently.
“Andy listen. He’s...been around a far too long.... time....if you get my drift.”
“You’re darn incoherent, that’s all I see.” Andy said curtly.
“Andy NO. Auntie said no going to his place. There’s something weird about him...his place...his art.... something very freakish....”Soumya started stammering.
“You and your absurd fairytales. I’m going.” Andy said irritated and walked off.
“Well, as I’m a good friend, and I care about you, I’m coming too.” Soumya said trying to sound braver than she felt.
They entered the house cautiously. The drawing room itself was stacked with paintings. Paintings of only people. Andy couldn’t help admiring them. At the same time, there was that queer fear. She couldn’t understand the importance of the maid, as the place was dusty and dirty and there were cobwebs hanging in each corner of the room.
“Well, isn’t this the brightest and the most cheerful place ever.” Soumya said sarcastically.
Just then, a shuffling was heard. The artist was hobbling through, with an excited smile on his face.
“Like them? They’re wonderful aren’t they?” he said smiling, that same gleeful smile.
Well, wasn’t he modest, thought Soumya drearily.
“Would you like me to paint one of you?” he said grinning, showing his yellowing teeth.
“Paint Soumya, she’ll look so pretty in your paintings. She’s got a better face cut than I have.” Andy said excitedly.
“No-n-no...” said Soumya nervously.
He smiled even more. He took Soumya by the hand and said comfortingly,
“I’ll have a wonderful painting. Come into the studio.”
Soumya threw an anguished glance at Andy who was too excited to notice. The studio room closed.
Four hours passed.
Andy was not a paragon of virtue and patience, by any means. She was rather irritated. Why do paintings take so long? There was such silence in the house, it was unnerving.
Deafening silence.
She decided to barge in. She pressed the door handle, and pushed the door open. The painting was done and ready. However the artist was snoring...and Soumya was nowhere to be seen.
Andy looked carefully at the painting. There was Soumya sitting on the couch....with a terrified expression on her face. She looked paralyzed with fear.
Intense and incapacitating fear clutched Andy’s heart. She then shook her head. She was being stupid. But the fear didn’t vanish.
Just then she felt a hand on her shoulder. She whipped around and saw the artist smiling sweetly at her.
“It’s good, isn’t it?”
“Yes it is...where is Soumya?” Andy asked quickly.
“She left obviously.”
“No she didn’t.” Andy said, anger and fear rising to her throat.
The Artist shook his head and said,
“She is in the painting, dear. She makes a wonderful painting, doesn’t she?”
The rumors exploded in Andy’s head.
“What have you done?” Andy whispered.
The Artist laughed and said,
“What makes my art beautiful? Reality. Reality is the essence of a work of art. Mine, that is. I paint people into my art. It gives me the utmost satisfaction....besides....art is my life. And I mean it in the literal sense. The people in my painting....well....their life is channeled into me. I thrive on it. I only paint pictures of the youth. And that’s how I have thrived for two hundred years. I thrive on it. I thrive on it. I need art to survive. And you innocently brought your friend along. I was fading slowly.... like a plant without water.... like a dog without food.... and you brought her along.... and I was revived....” he continued on this in mad ecstasy.
Andy was frozen with fear. She had led her only best friend into the most devious enchantment of all time. Her defiance and rebellion had paid off.
“I...can’t get her back....can I?” Andy said brokenly.
“No. do paintings become life? No....life becomes a painting. Go now, child. I thank you....I thank you...for my life....”
“Where is she? Where is she?” Soumya’s mother said getting into frenzy.
Andy couldn’t speak.
“Anindita, I told you. I TOLD YOU.” was all Andy’s mother could say.
Soumya’s father came in and said rather hollowly,
“The man’s left. He...left us this painting.”
Soumya’s mother walked up to the painting and held it tightly, with tears streaming down her face. She then shot Andy a look of pure hatred, and pain.
Andy never forgot that look. It was the only thing which haunted her more than the painting.
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