A Castle For My Princess

(Arts Illustrated Contest Winner. The story in based on the image of the above painting that was given)

‘It is said that this painting took a staggering 20 years to make. Is that true? Or is it just popular belief..? I mean…a myth…’ The interviewer asked the grey-haired woman in front of her, with an inconclusive pause. The open disbelief in her eyes was eclipsed by a child-like curiosity in her voice.

The 20 year claim deserved to be questioned, of course. Because it was an incredibly long period for a piece of art to come alive. The facts had to be fathomed and laid bare.

‘Are you asking me if it was a hype that I created for cheap popularity?’ The grey-haired woman asked with a derisive laugh and turned to stare at the painting that stoically sat on an easel, loving and hating it simultaneously. And then, sobering her eyes, she gazed at the young woman’s face in front of her and held her in her gaze for a while. The familiarity of the interviewer’s features first distracted her, and then it disrupted her faculties.

Distraction is different from disruption. The former merely makes one’s mind wander. The latter crumples it beyond recognition. And she was at that point.

Her name was Jacinta, with no surname. It was believed that she had a different desi name before she gained the present reputation. It was rumoured by her peers who envied her popularity that part of her fame came with the name, although they had no clear reasoning for the odd presumption.

The cameras zoomed in on Jacinta and waited for her to respond to the question about the painting’s long gestation. But in the silence that ensued, she began to zone out, slowly getting sucked into the vortex of a distorted impression from the past. As she scrutinized the interviewer’s face from her seat, an old memory flashed in her mind for a moment and died. A déjà vu flickered.

Those eyes, she thought, as she read the interviewer’s face. They were of the same colour – soft, succulent and brown like honey, fringed by long, curling eyelashes. And when the young girl batted them incredulously, like a child who couldn’t wait to hear a fairy tale, her heart leaped at the striking similarity. And the hair – the same frizzy curls that fell loose on her shoulders. Only the smile was different, and that too chiefly because the young girl didn’t wear braces like Anju did back in the time.

Behind her scrambled thoughts, Jacinta heard the interviewer repeat her question. ‘Can you tell us more about the painting and its genesis? I am curious and so are our viewers. What makes it so unique?’ she asked, quickly flicking a few curls away from her forehead.

‘Ah…that…!’ exclaimed Jacinta, more as a reaction to the endearing curl-tossing act that Anju so often used to do.

In a rapid second, she saw Anju sitting in front of her. She was convinced that her daughter had miraculously emerged from wherever she had vanished years ago and was now urging her to recount the story behind the blue castle that was auctioned at a record breaking price the previous week.

“I didn’t draw it. I built it for you,’ she said, slowly. The cameras that were focussed on her must have let out a silent gasp. ‘I put window after window in your memory over the years you have been away from me, Anju. Remember that day when you asked me how much I loved you and I said I would one day build a castle for you, that’s how much? And you said, ‘only princesses can have castles to live in. Not ordinary girls like me. I don’t even have a new dress for my birthday.’ A shadow of dismay crossed your little face then and I was crestfallen. What you probably meant was it was impossible that your mother who couldn’t buy you a birthday dress could build a castle for you. I know. I was single. I had a job that provided for us just enough. You saw through my incapability. It made me feel inadequate and useless as a mother. I felt failed in your eyes. It ripped my heart. That night as I tucked you in bed, I said, ‘You are my pretty little princess, and I will build a castle for you, no matter what it takes. Don’t you believe your mother?’ You merely nodded. Your smile was unconvincing, yet you held me close as we both dreamed of a castle that night. You in brick and mortar, and I, in pastels. It was the night before you went missing on your way back from school.’

Jacinta suddenly grabbed the hand of the young interviewer and said, ‘Look, I kept my promise. I made this castle for you, my princess, in your favourite colour. Building window after window, through which I peered every day, hoping to find your trace somewhere within its tall walls.’

The young girl froze. She had heard that Jacinta was a maverick artist who was fast losing her bearings in the recent years, but this was unexpected. She considered wrenching her hands off, but was too intrigued by the narrative to snap it mid-way.

‘When they couldn’t find you for several days after you disappeared,’ Jacinta continued, ‘people said weird things. Kidnapped. Trafficked. Sold. Even dead. But I was steadfast. I knew you had escaped our mundane, unprivileged existence to go and live in the castle that I was building for you on the canvas. It was just that I couldn’t spot you inside it with my inept eyes. So I made new windows through which I could let light fall in the dark corners and searched for you. And I wasn’t wrong. Look, I found you after all.’

The cameras were still rolling, the people behind it too wonderstruck to stop them from capturing the bizarre story. The blue canvas in front of them wasn’t just a random picture; it was a deranged artist’s fractured reality.

Light – Karthika Deepam

…To eyes that are open, what is there but Light? Darkness is a fallacy of the concealed sight.

An eclipsed phase of shadow over the soul, It will pass. It must. Light alone will remain…

Book of Life

(Published in Khaleej Times, Dubai, dated 28th Nov, 2019)

These are exceptionally difficult times for us all. The world isn’t becoming any friendlier nor is life getting any more benevolent than it was yesterday. Yet we are putting up brave fronts, displaying our best attitudes and trying to be chivalrous to beat the instabilities.

What’s notable about these everyday battles is, more often than not, we are waging it all alone. Except for a few who have a safety net of extended families and friends, most of us are ploughing a lonely furrow. We are rooted in the belief that nothing serves us better than our own hands.

‘Help’, which used to be a given and taken generously in the past even without asking, now sounds like a word out of an old wives’ tale. Think about it without being smug and dismissive. How often have you felt distraught at not being able to find a crutch to lean on in times of struggle? More often than we may like to admit.

We are closely guarded in our confessions about our vulnerabilities, admitting less, and owning up little. We reach out short when in need. We are so puffed up with our self-reliant posturing that we believe seeking help is a sign of weakness and helplessness. We delude ourselves by insisting that self-help is what will take us across the Rubicon. Is that why self-help books sell the most these days, I wonder as a joke.

I have often asked myself if our ‘helplessness’ is a choice we make. Can we do with some advice when we have run out of ideas? Can we stop and take directions when we suspect we have lost our way? Can we ask for help when we need it? Of course, we can. What stops us from putting the reluctant hand out and asking for help? Why is seeking help such a big deal?

Now let’s get this straight. No one here is getting through this life drill smoothly. Our deficiencies are endemic to our existence, and therefore, to pretend that we are perfect and beyond the need for reinforcements in life is absurd and self-defeating.

What’s more, we have fears of not just being judged for our inadequacies, but also of being slighted and snubbed outright. I have lost count of the number of times my requests for help have been met with either stony silence or abject alibis. And how many times have people made promises that are made to sound like gospels, but fade out like a dream! These instances are common, and one must leave wide margins of errors for them.

Moreover, I have realised this: Seeking help and support doesn’t expose our powerlessness. On the contrary, it reveals our confidence in finding ways to beat adversities. Problems often don’t go away on their own. They persist until they are booted out. Solutions don’t emerge if you fight the problems secretly. They surface in different ways when you are ready to shed your pride and request for help.

So ask when in need. Unabashedly. Regardless of whether people understand or not, whether they are willing or not, whether the answer is in the affirmative or not. Help might be closer than you think.

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