Finally, the day arrived. A trip to Bandra with Aai and Baba on a languid Sunday afternoon. Rushali could see herself peeping out the grated window of a slow train. Hand-painted adverts of pans and slippers and digestive powders passing by on the grey, mossy stone walls outlining the railway tracks.

Mr. Nadkarni dropped the missus and lassie at St. Andrews’ street and went off for a beer with friends. The girls treaded through the arterial streets of western Bandra, where they veered towards a closet-sized bookshop at Waroda Road.

The bookseller greeted them with a thick volume. “How about this gem for young lady?”. Rushali was handed a thick volume boasting a glass pyramid on the cover. “A first-rate rare limited edition, maximum value.”.

Rushali couldn’t blink as she flipped through the photo-quality pages, stealing glances at the beautiful brushstrokes. She turned to her mother with an obvious question in her eyes. Mrs. Nadkarni turned to the bookseller. “For you, madam – only four thousand”. Rushali let out a long sigh and handed the book to her Aai. “Three thousand six hundred?”. Mrs. Nadkarni tossed it back to the bookseller.

“If you score well this year, I will speak to Baba for one of these, okay?”

“Thanks, Aai. But there’s something I want more.”

“What’s that, love?”

“I want to paint, Aai.”

“I thought you hated drawing-period.”  

“It’s the teacher I hate. Bhaskar Sir can’t teach to save his life.”

“Is that so, Madam Principal?”, Rushali let out a mischievous smile, “…You know we can’t afford a private tutor. Even if we could, I wouldn’t know where to find a good one.”

“Leave that to me. But promise you’ll consider.”

“Aren’t you a bit too grown up to extract guarantees from your mum?”

“I’ll never be too old for that, Aai.”

***

Rushali was ready.

“Aai, I have a plan.”

“Alright, make me an offer your Baba can’t refuse.”

“Anisha’s been taking painting lessons from an artist at Bandra. He’s a professional – goes by ‘K’. Anisha says Mr K’s works are displayed in a gallery at Kala Ghoda. He teaches students on Tuesdays and Saturdays from home. Anisha has a driver, too. I could go with her after school.”

“And?”, Mrs. Nadkarni asked with a familiar raised brow.

“Just two thousand rupees a month, Aai”, Rushali said expectantly.

“So, you came prepared. It’s a steep ask, Rushali. I’ll speak to Baba, but don’t get your hopes up.”  

Rushali was smirking already. Stoic and stern as he may be to the world, Rushali was his kryptonite. But there was still one chink in her plan. 

“Three to five?”, Mr Nadkarni frowned. “You know I’ll be at work. Surely you don’t expect me to let you travel back from Bandra by yourself. Why don’t you take some online classes?”

Rushali was welling up. Mrs. Nadkarni could see where this was going. She decided to step in.

“Why don’t I pick her up? The train station is a five-minute walk from here. And Ranwar is a 10-15 minute walk from Bandra station.”  

Both Mr. Nadkarni and Rushali looked at Mrs. Nadkarni with awe. 

“I get done with dinner preparations by about 3 pm. After that, I read. I could do that on the train.” 

“Very well”, he said. “This painter better make a Mona Lisa out of you.” 

“Da Vinci, Baba!”, Rushali said before running into his arms.

***

Mrs. Nadkarni would alight at Bandra and exit from the western flank. She would wade through a sea of commuters and three-wheelers and BEST buses and cars, all squeezing into the tightest gaps past the other, before stepping onto the narrow entry road to Ranwar village. She had to often walk in the middle of the road – given that  the sidewalks were crammed with food stalls, florists, paanwallahs, and hawkers selling everything from old books to new knives. The heavy, moist air, carried intoxicating wafts of roasted coffee, cheap cigarettes, and pungent yeast. It was pure chaos. Mrs. Nadkarni had never felt more peaceful.

By the time Mrs. Nadkarni arrived at Mr. K’s society, Rushali would be sitting on a bench in the society garden.

***

A week later, on a rainy Tuesday, Mrs. Nadkarni reached Mr. K’s society a bit later than usual. The bench was empty. Mrs. Nadkarni was just about to panic, when she heard a thin voice calling out to her from the heavens. “Aai! Here, on the third floor!”. Mrs. Nadkarni dashed into the old, decrepit building. She rushed through the narrow corridor and up the craggy stairs. Metal doors waved at her on both sides on every floor. Three flights later, she saw a wooden door open, for her.

The matchbox apartment was underscored with mosaic tiles. Cream-coloured walls flooded the tiny rooms with natural light even under grey skies. Wide windows helped the apartment breathe freely. The window grill was the perfect spot for birds of different ilk to have a quick chat or seek refuge from the cold rain. The living room hardly had any furniture. Just a misty green sofa backed by three chairs; and crammed together on those chairs were three young students— each sketching away at canvases mounted on wooden easels.

“Look, Aai!”, Rushali cried out, pointing to her bowl of exotic fruits.  “Would you like a dragonfruit?”

“Are you sure that’s not an onion?”

“Mom!”, Rushali shrieked- letting out a little laugh from her Aai as well as her classmates.

“Hello, Mrs. Nadkarni”, said a voice from the back. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”  

Mr. K had a blue linen shirt on with khaki pants underneath. Specks of gold paint glistened on his folded cuffs and sparsely haired arms. The pastel attire brought out his wheatish complexion and dark brown eyes. His silver-black hair, parted to the left, showed remnants of childhood curls. His eyes were underlined with black bags, but his brow had no signs of wrinkles or lines. A slender nose was anchored on a round, clean-shaven visage. A pair of light purple lips stretched into a disarming smile. Despite his piercing gaze, he exuded a strange sense of calm.

“…Rushali is a great learner; immense potential. Kudos to you.”

“You’re very kind; but that’s all her. Just don’t tell her I said that. And thank you, of course, for helping her grow.”

“Not at all. Some tea, perhaps? I’ve just brewed a fresh batch.”

There was an ease about him. It was disorienting. 

“Thanks, but we must get going. Another time?”

“Sure, I’ll hold you to it. Goodbye Rushali, Anisha, Dev. I’ll see you devils next week.”

**

Saturday arrived. It was only half past one, but Mrs. Nadkarni had wrapped up all her chores for the day. She had over an hour before having to leave for Mr. K’s society. She turned up the radio. Bollywood ballads played in the background as she draped her hand-painted cotton saree. The vegetable-coloured fabric, etched with intricate motifs of elephants and conches, was a testament to fine Sambalpuri craftsmanship.

From the top drawer of a grey Godrej cupboard, Mrs. Nadkarni fetched a fluorescent-green, coin-shaped box. With the tip of her little finger, she scraped a tinge of kohl and carefully dabbed it across her lower eyelids. Her gaze was fixed on the fish-eyes staring at her from the mirror.  In a quick but elegant motion, she knotted her lush black hair into a neat bun. Clipped in was a gajra lined with fresh jasmines that flooded the room with their sweet fragrance. And for the pièce de résistance: she dabbed a moistened finger into a miniature gold box and pressed a full moon of vermillion onto her brow.

Before she could realise it, she was standing inside Mr. K’s apartment. Rushali pulled her Aai into a corner.

“Aai, Anisha and I are craving the pav-bhaaji at ELCO. She will drop me home right after if you don’t want to wait around. Can I please, please go?”

“Absolutely not. Your father will be livid.”

“Can I please ask him now?”

“And how do you propose we do that? You know the signal’s too weak here.”

Rushali pointed to Mr. K’s landline.

“Don’t be silly. Let’s go…”.

“Sorry to butt in…”, said Mr. K, “… do give it a go, let the poor plastic machine feel useful.”

Rushali looked at her mother with eager eyes. Mrs. Nadkarni dialled Mr. Nadkarni’s office. The receptionist answered. “Mr. Nadkarni is on a site visit. Can I take a message?”. Mrs. Nadkarni placed her palm on the phone, glanced at Rushali, and placed the phone back on its stand.

“You will be inside the house by 7 pm. Sharp. Clear?”

“Yes Aai, saat chya aat gharaat”, said Rushali – her voice muffled by the tight hug with Aai. 

The girls dashed out in a blink. Mrs. Nadkarni thanked Mr. K for the call, strapped on her purse, and moved towards the door. 

“Mrs. Nadkarni, aren’t you forgetting something?” 

“What’s that?”

“You owe me a cup of tea.”

For a moment she hesitated. But then she thought to herself: “what possible storm can a cup of tea bring about?”

She instinctively moved towards the kitchen.

“Mrs. Nadkarni. You owe me a cup of my tea. I will brew it in two blinks. Please make yourself comfortable.”

Mrs. Nadkarni smiled and delicately walked towards Rushali’s chair. She looked around the flat. There was a room at the back with its door half open. She could see a few boxes, wooden frames, and painted canvases. Bright yellow light bounced off one of the paintings. A shapeless figurine of golden light shimmered on the white wall. She couldn’t get her eyes off it. No sooner had she craned her neck for a better view than she heard footsteps approaching.

“Here you go, Mrs. Nadkarni. I didn’t add sugar, so please feel free to help yourself”, he said while pointing to a small jar, with the tail of a spoon pointing out. 

“Thank you”, she said while she added half a spoon of sugar. “It’s Uma.”

“Uma. Wonderful. I’m Kedar. How do you like the tea?”

No one had ever asked her how the tea was.

“Delicious.”

“one-worder? And I was afraid you’ll mince words.”

“I take it you prefer a more detailed breakdown?”, a smile emerged at the corner of her lips.

“Bingo.”

“It’s light, smooth, and yet richly flavoured. Slow simmer, shaved ginger, crushed cardamom; long-leaves of Darjeeling vintage – sprinkled with intent, right at the boil. A delicious concoction.”

“You sure know your tea well.”

“And you, Mr. K?”

“Touché.”

They sipped on tea and nibbled on some Marie-biscuits.

“I hope Rushali is coping well.”

“Absolutely – she’s a quick learner. Something tells me she gets that from you.”

Mrs. Nadkarni felt an unfamiliar warmth in her face.

“I couldn’t paint to save my life.”

“I’m sure that’s not true. Besides, if everyone’s an artist, who will be the connoisseur?”

“Well said. Unfortunately, I have no training in either. At best, I’m curious.”

“Curious is great. Maybe the best. Surely you don’t think you need a piece of paper to be able to appreciate true beauty? To be lovestruck by Botticelli’s  Venus orVermeer’s Milkmaidor Ravi Verma’s goddesses…”

“..or Michelangelo’s David…”

“Right on. Yes, David.” He said, raising his cup. She returned the gesture, delicately clinking the porcelain.

“I’m not saying formal education is meaningless; but one needs to draw the line somewhere.”

“And where would that be?”

“I don’t claim to know that. What do you think?”

No one had ever asked for her views.   So, she forgot she had them. Thoughts and questions developed over years; only to remain calcified in the back of her mind. Waiting to be articulated.

“It’s hard to draw a line. Art is everywhere, every day. We consume it. Pray to it. Art is our most prized gift from the creator. The ability to create, express. So, anything that connects or speaks to us is art. I suppose one can’t draw a line around that.”

“I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to ramble…”   

“Mrs. Nadkarni, I have much to say. But you have robbed me of my words. Let’s just leave that at that- for now.”

They smiled in unison.

“Mr. K. I must ask. You are a highly successful painter, and clearly a very busy one at that. Not all artists get that privilege. So, why teach?”

For a moment, there was silence.

“I deal with critics, brokers, patrons, businessmen, and all kinds of wheeler-dealers. Don’t get me wrong. I’m grateful that art sells. But there’s not a lot of truth out there. My students are honest. They have no agenda. No concocted legends around the meaning of my paintings to push up prices. Good students, like Rushali, question everything. They keep me sharp. Grounded. But it’s all the more important, then, to have the right learners. So, thanks again, Mrs. Nadkarni, for having raised a most formidable young thinker in Rushali.”

Mrs. Nadkarni was listening intently, maybe a bit more than she wanted seen.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to bore you…” he continued, “…I suppose you are also getting ready to leave…”

She wasn’t.

“What’s the matter, Mrs. Nadkarni?”

“No, it’s nothing. It’s not often you see someone sharing an honest relationship with their craft.”

“It’s the self I try to be honest with. The rest pretty much follows.”

“Not everyone has the courage to confront themselves.”

“True, how about one step at a time?”

A silence crept in. For a brief moment, his eyes lingered on hers. They were less than two feet apart. Yet, a whole world stood between them.

“I should get going.”

He kept the brush aside and walked towards her. With each step he took, her heart thumped harder against her chest. He extended his palm for a handshake; she hers.

“Goodbye, Uma.”   

“Goodbye, Kedar.”

As the handshake broke away, his palm went back with marks of vermillion; hers with splatters of gold.

-Ritvik Kulkarni