The first rays of the sun penetrated the grimy window panes and the frayed curtains, bathing the interiors in their balmy glow. The tiny room was sparsely furnished. There was a moldy closet in one corner and a rickety table with an old lamp on the other. On one side of the shabby door was an ancient bed covered with unwashed sheets. The moth eaten rug on the floor was dirty and cluttered. The walls were bare and the ceiling was obscured beneath the cobwebs.
The place was littered with an assortment of odd objects—half eaten sandwiches, empty plastic cups, crumpled papers, newspaper cuttings, rough sketches, paintbrushes, pencils and palettes full of dried paint. The only spotless object in this messy scenario was a canvas which stood in the middle of the floor. A rusty chair was placed in front of it.
All of a sudden, the door burst open. A scruffy man in his late thirties rushed inside, carrying a bag. He looked like someone who had fought and lost the battle of survival with life. His clothes seemed like they had never had an encounter with soap before. His shoes were holey and his cap was lopsided.
His prematurely lined face looked drained as he took a deep breath and perched upon the chair in front of the canvas, unpacking the bag and spilling its contents everywhere. As a result, more papers, pencils, paintbrushes along with tubes and bottles of paint joined the trash on the floor.
There was a gleam in his grey eyes as he mixed the colours. The artist knew that his patience would finally be rewarded. Within a short while, he would be able to fulfill his biggest dream. He rummaged through his pockets and produced a gold ring. He placed it on top of the canvas and got started with his work.
His first strokes were smooth and simple, just like his childhood. There were not many twists or shades. The colours were bright and distinct. There was golden for the glorious sunshine, red, pink, violet and green for the birds, flowers and meadows, streaks of silver for the twinkling sparks in the clear, blue lakes. And before long, the easiest and the most enjoyable parts of the task were over.
Slowly, he moved on to the more complex strokes. Teenage was a whirlwind of emotions. The brush almost whirled in a spiral motion and some twenty different colours found their way in. Nonetheless, as that phase got over, both—the colours as well as the sketches—got a lot steadier.
Youth was the next stage. He was confused regarding the strokes that were to be taken further. Which directions or what hues were supposed to be the best ones? His heart and mind battled constantly but his hands moved skillfully. He chewed his lips and frowned in concentration as the canvas glistened with the newly added colours. Being brought up in an orphanage, he had never known his family. He never had any friends either. He had always been a loner who craved the bliss of solitude. In the company of colours and shapes, he was able to dodge the pangs of loneliness.
A flicker of warmth crossed his canvas and his features visibly softened as his mind wandered back to the cupcakes baked by the orphanage’s matron. She had always had a special fondness for the peculiar little boy who, unlike the other children, never caused any trouble.
Even when he grew up, instead of blending into the crowd, he always ambled at the outskirts. He was an average student. He never participated in sports tournaments or cultural events. He often kept to himself and didn’t utter a word unless he was spoken to. His mysterious, brooding personality often churned up the gossip mills but he never paid heed to the wagging tongues. Some scorned him while others ignored him. However, there was someone who absolutely adored him.
She was a year younger than him and had lived in the same neighborhood when he was in college. She was attractive and popular. Her face was as fresh as a daisy and her eyes sparkled like stars. She had a dazzling smile and long, dark hair. Her creamy complexion and slender frame gave her the appearance of a chiseled sculpture. She was full of mirth and life. She was beautiful. She was his muse. She was capable of falling in love. He wasn’t.
Eventually, on account of the practicalities of life, she got married to a wealthy merchant. And even then, all that he ever missed was his muse. The only idea that comforted him henceforth was the fact that if she couldn’t be his muse anymore, she wouldn’t be any other artist’s muse either.
With a rueful sigh, he smeared some soft, gentle hues on the multicoloured canvas. Calmly and carefully, his deft hands began an elegant dance over his unfinished work, his eyes flickering back to the ring every now and then.
Losing his muse had turned him into a ship that had lost its anchor. For years, he drifted along, alone, anonymous and broke, despite being a powerhouse of talent.
One evening, he was on his way home when he felt a hand on his shoulder. Alarmed, he turned around and came face to face with a tramp. “Got a cigarette, mate?” he grinned, displaying a broken row of yellow teeth. The artist shook his head and attempted to move on. “Scared of me?” the tramp croaked, smelling of cheap liquor, “I am not insane, you know? I was just betrayed.”
Mutely, the artist started walking again. But the other man followed him, swaggering a great deal. “See this?” he held out a small gold ring, “It was my wife’s. She was pretty. And I loved her. But she didn’t love me back. She loved some ruddy artist! He used to paint her. And that made her feel special! I showered her with gifts and praises and all she pined after was that stupid artist! This ring…She loved it more than me because she used to wear it whenever she was with him!”
The artist gasped. But his drunken companion slurred hysterically, “She died…she died. And she left me heartbroken. I lost everything that I had on liquor. And here I am! Penniless! Homeless! Now, do you have a cigarette?” But before the artist could say anything, the poor man hiccupped and collapsed. He tried to wake him up but he merely gave a great snore and went to sleep. The artist’s eyes fell upon the ring beside him. His muse! Dead! He pocketed the ring and walked away.
The artist snapped back to the present. He had been staring at the ring intensely. He shifted his focus back to work. With a renewed vigor, he gave the finishing touches to his art. Then, he stepped back to admire his creation. Satisfied, his face broke into a brilliant smile. He picked up the ring reverently and whispered, “Thanks, my muse!” before slipping it into his shirt pocket. It was dusk by the time he bundled up the painting and set off towards the buyer’s house. For the first time, his passion was bringing him some professional benefits.
Without warning, he was knocked off his feet and the painting rolled out of his hand. “Where is my ring, filthy thief?” He heard a menacing growl. “Get off me!” he whimpered as he felt something cold and sharp across his throat. “Give it back to me,” the dirty face was livid. “I won’t. It’s hers and she would have wanted me to have it, not you!” the artist replied defiantly. The tramp’s crazy eyes flashed in understanding. “You are…him?” he breathed. The artist nodded solemnly. “She’s my muse,” he clutched the ring and whispered back. Suddenly, he felt a sharp pain ripple through his chest. The ring was abruptly snatched from him. Something warm seeped through his shirt as the blackness descended upon him. The last thought in his mind before his eyes closed was that he had lost something precious and that, perhaps he had been too late to realise it.
The door to the tiny room burst open again. Two bulky men entered. “Nasty business, I say! Stabbed to death! These tramps should be locked up!” the first one commented. “The cops took him away?” the other inquired. “Yeah. Apparently, the tramp was crazy. Kept muttering ‘it’s him’ and wouldn’t let go of that ring!” “Pity,” the second man offered, “You wanted to get this stuff out?” “Yeah, as usual, the artist hadn’t paid my rent in time. And since nobody’s claiming this stuff, I suppose I’ll sell everything.”
Outside, it started to drizzle. The colours on the paper were washed away by the raindrops and diluted into a puddle next to it. The canvas has changed. But the colours were the same. Another masterpiece was being created.
- Nitya Pandey
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