The Advice

THE ADVICE


Of all the innate qualities an artist is blessed with, I feel, reticence is perhaps the most profound. Sameer was no exception.

Sameer was as innocent a person as you can meet. But unfortunately there exists several other traits devoid of which a person can not imagine a fruitful social acceptance if not popularity. He was a character who could invite pity from his acquaintances but not a warm relationship. He was born with such shyness and reluctance that ignorance could be his only fate. He was not only inadequate with words but they were misdirected and ambiguous and though he tried to make up for this deficiency by making his tone loud, he still sounded languorous and without any hint of conviction. He was accursed to live a childhood without any acknowledgement, in total denial and rejection.
There was no wonder that Sameer’s reluctance gave way to listless behaviour. His actions reflected the ease of a spoilt prince but lacked the charm and chivalry. He was like a sloth. As a boy he hated work. He would wake up late ignoring all attempts- both vocal and physical- of his mother to get him out of his bed; bunk classes; stroll all day in the fields with his closest friend Vivek in spite of his father’s order of helping him in his work (his father was a respected farmer in the village); take no pain to do a single house hold work and even throw a scornful stare on his younger brother when he refused to bring him a glass of water but not move out of his chair to fetch one for himself. There was no doubt in the genuineness of his love for his family but he was too inert and casual to convert his dispositions into his actions. He was still innocuous but he had become irritating.

But all these can also be considered as essential compensations for his genius. Sameer was brilliant with colours in which he found a vent to all his suppressed feelings. His ideas were always exquisite but because of his inherent indolence his strokes were clumsy and figures crude which made his painting appear anything but soothing to the eye. So it was not before youth, and only after enormous practice-this was the only area where he had worked hard- that he could make his paintings presentable enough to the mute layman who could show their admiration only by buying them to use them as supplements to the furniture in their drawing rooms.

It was the happiest day of Sameer’s life.

“Your paintings are marvelous.” A critic said.
“Thank you.” Sameer replied.
“Every painting is unique, each has its own story and yet each one is equally sensitive, equally intense and equally beautiful. No praise is sufficient for you. Where were you till now?”
“Thank you.” He said again with a nod. He could not think of anything else not only because he was a terrible orator but also because he was overwhelmed. The only difference between the two was that he had, unsuccessfully though, put an extra effort the second time to retain the modesty in his tone.

Sameer was obviously not accustomed to such lavish praise. This was the first time in his life that he was being recognized for something and he was feeling proud of his accomplishments. His paintings were being displayed in an art exhibition and were being extolled more than his expectations. In fact one of them was being acknowledged as the best painting of the exhibition.

“How are you buddy?” A slightly familiar voice called from behind.
It took Sameer only a second to recognize him. It was his old and only friend Vivek and before he knew anything they were hugging each other.
“Wow! We are meeting after so many days. Where have you been?”
“Leave my whereabouts. First you tell me how are you? And you have become a famous painter now.”
This was the reason why Sameer liked Vivek. He always gave him a chance to speak first, and always cared about him, something Sameer was not used to.

“Oh! Yes. I am glad that finally my hard work has paid off. And now I am even happier because on this very day I meet you again. It has doubled my pleasure.” He said with a grin and then after a small pause added. “Do you want to have a cup of coffee? We can talk more over coffee.”
“Sure.”
They went to a small canteen just outside the exhibition and ordered two cups. Sameer noticed that Vivek was wearing an ordinary check shirt and jeans which though was not torn, as per the fashion, but looked old. His face appeared a touch jaded perhaps because he had not had a shave in past couple of days.
“The coffee is nice.” Vivek said taking a sip.
“That’s why I brought you here. I remember you liked coffee a lot.”
“So tell me more about you?”
“There is nothing much to tell actually. After you left the village, I really got alone. But I continued practicing my drawing. I came to city last year and after struggling for a while have managed to get my paintings displayed in this exhibition. But the fact is, had it not been for you, I would not have become a painter. I still distinctly remember those days when we used to sit beside the village pond, under the tamarind tree and chat for hours, swim in pond, catch fish in there and of course paint as well. I clearly remember how bad I was and good you were. How you helped me with my brush strokes and my sketching. And how you used to encourage me that I can do better.”

Vivek was the only person who understood Sameer. He was a better painter than Sameer and he encouraged him to paint better, unlike his parents who considered his painting as another of various ways in which Sameer wasted his time.

“Painting is a mean profession.” They used to say.

But Sameer enjoyed painting as much as he enjoyed Vivek’s company. He was the only person around him he felt comfortable; around him all his insecurities used to vanish like burning camphor. He was his friend, philosopher and guide. When Sameer was fifteen, he had liked a girl and used to think of different ways to impress her. One day, Vivek had brought a painting of that girl which he had painted and asked Sameer to show that painting to the girl and propose. It is a different story altogether what happened after that, but Sameer for sure was very touched by this gesture of Vivek.

“Vivek would do anything for him; and he would do anything for Vivek.” He used to think.

“O.K. That is enough about me. Now you tell me about yourself.”

“Well, as you might be remembering that I had left the village after Class 12th and then had come to city for some job. At present, I work as a mechanic in a garage. The village education was not very useful, you see; nor was painting.” A wry smile played on his lips but did not reach his eye.

Sameer felt bad for him. And this was where he hated himself. This was where a strange reluctance caught his tongue and he was unable to speak anything which would make Vivek feel better. Had it been Vivek in his place he would have easily said something which would have cheered him up. But Sameer was not Vivek. He could have painted a materpeice on what he was feeling now, but sorry sir, he could not say any words of sympathy or encouragement. Instead what he said was this.
“Why didn’t you become a painter? You could have become a better one than me.”

Vivek’s face suddenly became very stern. His breath became heavier. Sameer could not understand what had caused such a change in his countenance.
“Was his question that rude?” He contemplated.
Vivek took out a box of cigarette and asked Sameer.
“Do you still smoke?”
Sameer recognized that the box was familiar. It was a cheap brand they used to smoke together hiding from their parents in the village. He had left smoking that brand because it was unfiltered, but he could not have refused him.
“Yes, I do.” He said, took a cigarette and lighted it.
They both took a few deeps puffs.
“Do you want to know why I did not become a painter?” Vivek said. His tone was acrid had a clear hint of hatred in it.
“Yes, I want to know.”
“It was because of you.” His voice if liquefied could have dissolved gold in it. It was pure acid.
Sameer was completely taken aback. He felt as if Vivek had dropped a bomb. He just could not believe what he had just heard.
“What?”
“Yes, it was because of you. Do you remember how you had advised me to leave painting because it was a useless profession? And you had said that you are going to leave it too.”
Sameer some how managed to hold his brain and recollect what Vivek was talking about.

It was when he was around eighteen years old. He had had a serious discussion in his home with his father. His father had abused him for not doing anything but sitting at home. He had thrown his painting on his face and had told him that they were noting but useless crap. He had said that he could never become a painter and that he could draw a decent face. That day Sameer was very disappointed and they both met under the same tamarind tree in the evening.

“I think father is right. We should quit painting. There is no use of it. After all how many famous painters do we know? Vivek, I think you should stop painting as well. You are much brighter than me. You can easily get a good job and you should not destroy your career doing this painting.” Sameer had said.
A few days after this incidence, Vivek had left the village and gone to the city.
“How could he have taken this advice seriously? How could he be so foolish? And merely on the basis of one advice, he has no right of accusing me.” Sameer thought. He even felt a little angry.
“Do you remember?”
“Yes I do.” Sameer said. “But how could you be so serious about just an advice. We were kids back then. I was stupid and agitated that day.”
“Its not just about the advice” He said and took another puff.
“Then what?”
“It’s just about you, and everything about you? Did ever think about me in the village? Did you ever bother to find out how I was or what I was doing in the city? No. You were just engrossed with your own painting. You were always like that. Always bothered about yourself and none others, not me, not even your family.”
Sameer was doing what he was best at. Keeping quiet. But he had never imagined that he would ever be accused by his friend.
“Do you know that whenever your younger brother used to be in any trouble he used to come to me for help and not you?”
Sameer knew it. He had felt sad when he had learnt it but he did not do anything about it.
“I am sorry.” He said. “But I never meant any harm to you.”
“Yeah, Thank you for that sorry. That is quite convenient. You know what the biggest problem is. You just never mean anything to anyone.”
He picked up his pack of cigarettes and left the table.

Sameer was left all to himself. His closest friend had accused him of betrayal. He had said everything about him which he knew but never wanted to recall. His acid tone was tearing him apart. His every word was thumping against his ear like a hammer. With lead heavy footsteps he went back to exhibition where everyone had left. He was broken but was not prepared to end up insulted on that day.
“What non sense.” He thought.
“Just one advice. What the hell was he thinking? After all I was always the dull one. He only had said that my younger brother used to go to him for any help and not me. So why did he take my advice instead of listening to his own heart. It was his mistake that he has failed. He lacked the perseverance. He lacked self belief. If he is a mechanic today, it is because he was destined to be. After all a man makes his own destiny. It is not at all my fault. I stuck to my beliefs and I became a painter. He succumbed and he is a mechanic. Simple. Why does he want to make me feel bad if he has failed? And what else was he saying? I did not care about him and that I never bothered to find out what he was doing. Did he bother to come to village and see what I was doing? Why should I take all the blame? He is equally at fault.”

He wandered around in the gallery, looking at all his paintings, his chest swollen with pride. Then suddenly his eyes fell on his favourite painting, the one which was being considered the best. And he melted.
He had drawn this one deriving joy of the happiest memories of his life. It was indeed a masterpiece. For layman like us it is difficult to comprehend what it was. It had shades of bottle green, yellow, gold, purple, earth and clay. It had something sensual about it, something exotic, something that gave a sense of mysterious joy. It resembled a tree.
“How could I think so meanly of my best friend?” He felt a sense of deep pain in his heart as if somebody had clenched it with his fist.
“He was my inspiration. My only friend. He has done so much for me and I have done nothing. What if he has blamed me? Am I not at fault? Is not every word of what he has said true. I have never taken any pain for anyone. And I used to think that I could do anything for him. I have never meant anything to anyone.”

Suddenly, an idea struck him. He took the painting, brought out a lighter from his pocket and set it on fire. He saw the flames engulf it. He felt a strange happiness. He felt that he could breathe easily and that a fist has been unclenched. He saw the tree burn behind the grey cloud of smoke. But even the grey cloud had a silver lining. A tear rolled down his eye.