I realized myself sitting on the
middle of a thin cloth, below which I could sense rough floor. I heard a
half-sleep, delicate voice through the pitch dark surrounded upon me.
“What happened?” asked my wife.
Gently touching her hand placed on my leg, I smiled. I’m not sure whether she
could see my lips curving.
“Everything will be ok,” she
said, her voice firm this time.
Three years ago, at the age of
35, I left my job to pursue a career in painting, in which I believed I could
make big someday. If Chetan Bhagat, Amish
Tripathi, Shankar Mahadevan and so forth can do it why can’t I? I argued
with everyone who slammed my decision.
“Just forget it, mate. I don’t think you can make it far in the field
at this age,” one of my colleagues rubbished my fancy, ‘you’ll end up screwing
all you have now.
“Well, I don’t care for your opinion or for that matter anyone’s
opinion,” I replied him politely, “I want to become a painter to fulfill my
dream; the one that I saw when I was young.
“I know I had abandoned it for this long, while running after money,
luxury and stuff, but I can do it now.”
Smirking, he left.
The years that followed turned
my life upside down; all the money I had saved for my days of struggle was done
within a year. I realized how I scattered my money for everything I could’ve
done without. I sold my BMW X1, shifted to a smaller flat with a normal ceiling
fan, a far cry from my completely furnished ac flat. I hoped to get that back
soon, but it got worst from worse.
I was so foolish. Should I’ve changed my mind then? I thought. That
night became a part of my of those nights when I stayed wide awake. Thinking
what I’ve done to my wife, I thanked god for not giving us any child. Not
wanting to disturb her sleep, I would sob lightly, each night. Oh yes, I
sobbed.
Sunrays passing through a small
slit fell on my tear stained cheek; it felt warm. Picking up my shirt from the
ground, I walked out from what used to be a garage. My wife, working as a
tailor in a textile firm, could afford only this place. Visiting painting
exhibitions used to be my sole job other than painting most of the day.
Although my wife made me vow
that I wouldn’t do any petty jobs after discovering me working as a painter, I
never miss any unexpected opportunity of earning few bucks. I would paint
people and sell them at insultingly cheap prices. I would remember these days and paintings; my first earnings I
smiled. I just hope I don’t end up this
way
Sifting all the vessels we had,
my wife turned towards me entering our so-called home; it was clear from her
desperate expressions that she was looking for some money that she might have banked.
I slid my hand in my pocket and handed her the notes I had. She was visibly
angry, looking at the money. “I just sold some of my paintings,” I defended myself.
“I’m not taking this money,” she
said, resuming her noisy search task.
“But why?” I snatched the steel
box from her hand, “I will always do this, I’ll always sell paintings.”
“I’ve no problem with you
selling your paintings, but not like this. Not to those who have no idea what
they are buying.”
I shook my head, “its ok.”
“No it’s not. You are blessed
with such a talent, don’t take it to streets,” she pleaded.
“That doesn’t make sense, I
mean, how does that matter?” I asked baffled,” It’s my dream and I’ll achieve
it no matter what I have to do for it.”
“Your dream?” she fumed, “It’s
not your dream, anymore. It’s our dream now! It became mine too the day I
accepted your decision of quitting the job.”
Holding her close, I wiped her
tears off. “I know. I know I can’t repay you for what all you did for me.”
“You don’t have to. I love you
and your love is all I seek.”
The words ‘I love you’ fell so
short of what I wanted to tell her that moment. Her every sacrifice rolled
infront of my eyes. She gave up all her luxuries and comforts and continued
living with me a damned life. Never ever complained, never bothered the cursed
days we were living. I’m sorry for making
you go through all this. Thank you for taking my side when everyone left me,
even my closest friends. Only satisfaction in my life is having you as my life-partner.
Thank you for choosing me.
My wife's love gave me hope. A simple word but the best of all feelings, err..greatest of all. I recollected the words said by Andy from the movie The Shawshank Redemption, Hope is a good thing. May be the best of things and no good thing ever dies!
Next day, I returned home to see
our garage owner arguing with my wife. We defaulted on few months of rent. I requested
the heft looking man requesting for some days’ time to pay back his due. He refused
and demanded we leave the place next day.
“I’m in urgent need of some
money, mate,” I asked my one of the few friends I was left with. He gave me a
pity-filled look that I chose to ignore.
“And what insane painting did you bring me this time?” he
criticized.
During my early bankrupt days, I
approached many of my friends for debt and as a token of appreciation
I gifted each of then a painting of mine. They accepted
it with a hearty laugh, though, but still that made me happy thinking my work
would be displayed somewhere.
Smiling at his remark, I looked
expectantly.
“Giving money to you is like a
rubber investment, man,” he said, curtly, “you only put in and there is not
even a hope of getting something in return.”
“I understand I owe you a lot.
But please, I’m in dead need of money,” I said careful enough not to include my
painting-gift practice in the picture.
“Oh wait, you give us your
paintings, right, Mr Picasso?”
Oh, shit! He’s drunk! “I’ll see you some other time,” I said and
started rushing out of the house.
“Hold on, Mr. Picasso, take back
this shit of yours!” he screamed, hurling a canvas at me. It was my favorite
painting that I gave him. Twirling, it fell at a distance from me. Feeling
heavy in my heart, I picked it up and walked back slowly.
All my paintings were lying on
the street in front of our home along with our other stuff and my wife pleading
the owner with her eyes brimming with tears. The scene broke my heart. Moving
towards her, I called her.
“Go to work,” I said, calmly.
She looked at me in horror.
“Are you out of your mind?” she was
cowed, “We are on the brink to lose our only shelter.”
“Just go back to work,” I
repeated, holding her face with both my hands, “Do what I say.”
Confused or defeated, I don’t
know, but she was walking down the road. I turned my gaze towards the owner,
who shouted, “Just get the hell out of here.” I nodded.
I don’t know if I ever shared the
thought of doing this wild act with anyone, but I decided to do it anyway. This is my last attempt and if this fails I’m
going back to my job!
Standing in front of an art
gallery, I looked at the rich faces that were entering the hall filled with
paintings. I took a deep breath and started arranging my canvases on the foot
path. Although it did grossed some glances, but nothing much happened then. I
sat down, hunched and thumped, recollecting where I last saw my resume.
“Did you paint these?” asked a
tall, bearded man after three hours. I nodded, standing tall. He stood there
for fifteen more minutes, examining each of the seven paintings I displayed.
“These are amazing,” he said
after a never ending gaze, “If you have no place to exhibit them, you are
welcome into my gallery,” he asked. Tears overcame my words, when the old man
placed his arm on my shoulder. I tried to put my thoughts into words, but
failed in doing so.
“I know the feeling. I was right
there seventeen years ago where you are now.”
Two of my paintings were sold
there that day, one of which was my favorite one. That day, I was sure that my
life is going to be better, yet I had no idea I would own three art galleries five
years down the road, where I would encourage new entrants.
Time will never wait for you,
your life will always keep moving no matter what and its up to you either to
see what you’ve lost and decide your life has sucked big time or to look at
what you’ve earned and realize that life has just got better!!
