Vicissitudes

The sun had begun to set on the temple town, shooting fountains of color from the horizon upon the streets, mingling with the neon light of the street-lamps, lending the town an ethereal look. Hari alighted from the bus, mulling over the uncanny coincidence of the day's events which had brought him back here – to this place which once had been his sanctuary, his second home.

Five years. Five long years had passed, Hari realized, since his last visit. Life had come full circle since then. He had seen it all. But the place was still the same. The calm, cool air. The occasional, high pitched toll of the temple bells. The wafting aroma of incense. The mumbled prayers of the dhoti-clad, busy looking priests and passers-by. Even the lodge still looked the same, though it looked a shade younger in its new coat of blue which had come to replace the faded gray color which had once characterized it.

Time seemed to stand still here. On this street, where he had once set foot on, as a twenty-five year old who had nothing to lay claim to, other than his own dreams, unbridled confidence and fingers which could weave magic on canvas with every stroke of a brush. Hari ran his hands through his unkempt, browning hair, wishing ruefully whether he could go back in time, and be that impetuous, prodigiously talented young painter once again.

No. It wasn’t to be. There was no way back. His shoulders had drooped from the agony of repeated failures. The eyes had sunk deep into their sockets and had black patches round them, lending him an appearance which would have suited a man who was double his age. The truth that he himself was accountable for his current travails weighed him down even more. In the frantic, mindless race to the top, in those years which sped dizzily under the spotlight, amongst the ubiquitous accolades and encomiums, he had never known what he had been losing; and when the realization finally dawned on him, everything precious in life had been lost.

Everything. Destroyed beyond redemption. Like dainty flowers trampled down into the sand by a firm, ruthless boot.

He stepped warily into the lodge, feeling a slight apprehension about meeting someone who knew him. In the very next instant, the sheer meaninglessness of his fear struck Hari. It was years since he had faded away from the spotlight and from the public consciousness. It was foolish to think that anyone would recognize him. His parched, tobacco stained lips cracked into a wry smile at the thought.

Hari was not fully in his senses, even as he signed the guestbook, pocketed the key and silently followed the room-boy to the room allotted to him. He was shocked into his senses, only when the boy stopped at the room numbered two-zero-six on the second floor. The boy unlocked the door which opened with a creak.

The familiar, faint, damp smell greeted his nostrils, as he stepped in. As he locked the door behind him and opened the window overlooking the temple, the golden flagpole of the temple gleamed in the distance. When the door which led into the balcony was opened, the cool night breeze rushed in like a playful, rogue child; bringing with it a whole deluge of memories. The past, with the aid of the day's numerous coincidences, seduced him, like a temptress.

The memories of a similar evening, in the same room, overlooking the same golden flagpole, floated up in front of his eyes. Hari stretched out on his chair and poured himself a drink. It had become his habit of late, to drown himself in drinks. Drink and drink till he faded out into unconsciousness, till memories no more troubled him.

But today, each peg that he downed only served to accentuate the memories of that evening. And about the woman who had been with him, that day.

Arundhati.

Her smile. With the warmth of a thousand flames.
Her touch. With the coolness of a mountain spring.

It had been on a similar evening, that he had made love to her for the first time. In this same room. Though it had been on impulse; as they lay in bed afterwards, spent, both of them had felt that they had never done a more natural thing to each other.

Hari had met Arundhati for the first time at one of his painting exhibitions. Then, she had flitted about him, like an insect around a candle flame. Blind in her adoration for the upcoming, brilliant, painter. That was just the start. He became besotted too, with her beauty and her vivacious self. The relationship grew. It was he, who then took the initiative. He had given her all the attention he could, so much so that, it flattered her; and had found time to be with her

She had been an elixir, an obsession. In her presence, his brush seemed to move as if in a trance, his works transcended the ordinary. The very sight of her inspired him. Life became beautiful. It was her prayers that drove him on. When, like a typical greenhorn, he was distraught at a failure, she would lend him a shoulder to cry, would fuel his optimism. When one of his works had not hit the right notes, she would come up, with prompt criticism.

Each of his paintings drew a thousand admirers. Awards and accolades seemed to chase him around.

But Hari could not recollect when the fame had started to get to his head. With each step up the ladder, his mind had grown narrower. Overconfidence and arrogance pulled blinds over his eyes. He had lurched mindlessly ahead, towards the beckoning glory. Like a firefly which rushes into light, unaware that it would only end up burning its wings.

And he did burn his wings indeed.

It was a dizzy ride to stardom. He toured worldwide, held painting exhibitions everywhere. The group of admirers grew; and he forgot himself amidst the paeans that they sung to him. Arundhati faded away into oblivion from his memories, just another forgotten one, amongst the bevy of starlets who now chased him around.

Like a hurriedly snuffed out candle flame. Little had he known that without this little candle flame that he snuffed out, life would plunge into darkness.

The last time she had come before his eyes had been at a public reception arranged for him. She had made her way, painfully through the crowd towards the dais, and held out a piece of paper on which she had scribbled her address. He never had heard, rather had chosen not to hear, the muffled sobs and tears. He had been too busy to think of the past. In the ensuing hubbub and the flash of camera lights, Arundhati was forgotten.

Only to resurface again at an obscure corner of a local daily. In an obituary report. It had been a suicide.

That was the beginning of the end.

He came to know of it only after a while, from a friend. The news shook him. He could not concentrate on anything, anymore. Unable to do anything to atone for what he had done, the magic, slowly but surely faded away. The fingers which once wove poetry on canvas were now numb and paralyzed by guilt. The colors and once elegant brush strokes now made only a fleeting appearance. The paean-singers left too, one by one. A permanent pall of darkness descended upon his life. The clutch of the past grew stronger, and had pulled him down, deeper and deeper into abyss.

He set up the canvas at a corner. He did it every day, a meaningless custom, in spite of the fact that he hadn't done a worthwhile painting in over two years. Sitting in the room, Hari drank hard, staring blankly out of the window at the crimson sky, which seemed to reflect the cinders which smoked within. Usually, no amount of drinks, no amount of drugs could free him from the memories and the guilt.

Ever.

But, now, in the same hotel room, in which they had lain together for the last time, looking into each others' eyes, each of their bodies pressing snugly into the grooves of the other’s body; the pall of gloom slowly seemed to lift steadily and he felt a rare lightness in his chest. He felt dizzy, and tried to keep his eyes open.

Then he felt as if Arundhati stood before him. Her hands outstretched, beckoned him. With the same bewitching smile.

Then she came close, and ran her fingers through his hair. The sights around grew more and more blurred. The sounds around became less and less audible. Tender fingers lifted up his chin, gripped his fingers and guided them, across the canvas. Slowly, but surely, he felt the magic return.

Bit by bit. Like the moon waxes from behind the clouds.

Lines and shades started to fall in place, as he drew on, still in a trance. She held him close as he drew, pressed her soft, luscous lips to his forehead as he applied the finishing touches.
Then Hari saw her drift away, as he closed his dreary,careworn eyes.

He woke up in the morning, feeling the warmth of the sunlight on his cheeks. He reached out for the whisky, and found the bottle broken, at a corner in the room. Then his eyes fell on the painting. It was perfect. The delicately carved temple walls. The crimson skies. The busy street. All were perfectly etched out on the canvas.

With tearful eyes, he walked out, to the temple pond ,stepped into the knee-high water and dipped his head into the pond and rose up. As the cool water trickled off his hair and bare back, he felt the burden of guilt wash away. Then he looked up towards the sun, closed his eyes and prayed for Arundhati's soul.