C For Creativity

I finally reached the village where she lived. I'd seen her painting in a hotel in the capital and in that moment I knew, only she could teach art to my son. It was one of the paintings sold during her first exhibition held in the capital.  The exhibition was a grand success, they say. But it was her last exhibition too. She was lost into oblivion— No one knows, why?  Her search had taken me to various artist, art dealers, and galleries. They all had many tales to tell about her, most amusing among them was — she was mystical. Then one day I met an artist who claimed to be one of her student and he told me how to find her.

The cottage was secluded from rest of the village. The villagers called her witch but a good witch, they clarified. They said her soup were magical which cured people's illness and were no less than elixir for the people on death bed. Frankly, I do not buy into such theories for one reason; I have been educated by my family at home. I know when human mind cannot explain science of it then they call it magic, divine, mystical or paranormal.  The driver of the carriage left me in front of a huge garden.

The garden in front of the house had grown wild. It must have been left as is for years. There were various trees and plants, many of them were fruit or flower bearing,  and  some medicinal.I could see the Rose bush had grown wide and met the Jasmine and a vine rapped both plants, but the vine had dried out, actually most of the plants were dry as autumn had arrived. The vines were all over the place covering the plants; I presumed they were mostly weed. On one of the vine though, a purple flower bloomed. It was like a bright spot, standing tall to tell that spring is around the corner.

The wooden door was slight open and I pushed in to get inside. On my way here, I practiced hundred times over that I would fall on her feet and ask to take my son as apprentice but now I was I two minds. The place looked wreaked and I was not sure if I will send my son here. I entered with bated breath.

 Sculptures were scattered around in randomly in hallway. The ducks rested on side table were made of wood, the lion near the door at times seemed to roar and at times appeared to welcome a visitor. The lion was carved out of Marble. On the table I saw a sculpture of a young woman with her both hands on her waist, happy woman, almost alive.

‘May I help you,’ I looked at my host who now stood in front of me. She was much older than I'd imagined, her thick grey hair tied in a bun. Her eyes were covered with thick glasses. Lines had shown up on her face displaying ageing. She was shorter than me. She wore a black robe with a belt around her waist. She walked with a support a stick, yes she was very old.

‘Oh! I am sorry to intrude but the door…’ my voice trailed off.

‘You look tired. It must have been a long journey. I will make a soup for you.’

‘Thank you, I said.’My cheeks were red with embarrassment.  I am a civil woman, I’ve been taught to knock on door but this cottage, and the garden drew me in. But, that cannot be an excuse. This is an intrusion and absolutely uncalled behaviour.

She returned from kitchen with a glass of water. I gulped it. To break the ice, she asked what do I think of the painting on the wall across.

‘I am not a person who knows art.’

‘Don’t fret, you do know.’

I moved towards the large painting and looked at it closely; it was a form of art not many can understand, including me. Colours were splashed all over which made no sense until I saw two women on corner peeking at me and little above it a light shimmering from a black hole, I moved  further left and all I saw went back to what it was — a splash of colour. I began to marvel at little things popped out for a few moments and again merged back into it. I’d seen nothing like it before. I turned to tell her but realised she must know what she had drawn.

‘Here, the soup is ready.’

The soup lived upto its glory as told by one of her student and the villager. ‘This tastes magical,’ I said for lack of better metaphor.

The woman smiled and I was now completely at ease. I explained her that I would like my son to learn art from her.

‘It is not important,’ said she. She took my palms in her frail hands. She moved it them on me.

‘You look like an educated woman, a rarity these days.’

 I nodded.

‘Have you ever drawn?’

‘Oh! I cannot draw or carve anything. I am terrible. I am not creative.’

Do you play music?

‘I used to drum during the songs but nothing formal.’

‘So, you must be a singer.’

 I nodded in negation.  She is going to refuse apprenticeship to my son.

 ‘You have nice round fingers, and I know they told you long ago that you can’t draw, sing or play.’

I looked at her in astonishment and my eyes had welled up.  She was right in her observation, every time I picked up a hobby people laughed or coerced me into why I won’t be able to do it.

‘I think today’s lesson is over. Come back tomorrow with luggage.’

I got up, I couldn’t thank her enough.