On the fourth platform of Eranakulam South Railway Station,
the superfast train that runs between New Delhi and Trivandrum which is popularly
known as ‘Kerala Express’ has already arrived. At the entrance of the railway
station a huge crowd stands in waiting for someone important to come. A white
banner hung casually across the tasteless concrete window that conspicuously stands in contrast with the impeccable white uniforms of the officials gathered there
announces the arrival of the central Railway Minister. For the time being the
railway station and the authorities seem to be less concerned with the
passengers as they expectantly wait for the mighty one to alight from one of the
trains that would chug in a few minutes’ time at the platform number one. Policemen
and security personnel stand alert but their facial expressions betray their weariness.
I imagine the minister as a responsible authority and an earnest passenger who
has boarded the train two days before from New Delhi and travels all the way to
Eranakulam in order to get a firsthand experience of the plight of the
ordinary passengers who have to make up with dirty loos and substandard food
in the rundown rail bogies. However, commonsense tells me that the minister
must have flown in from Delhi and after landing at the Nedumbasseri Airport, he
must have taken a train from the nearest railway station, which is Aluva.
Usually I reach railway stations and airports well ahead of
time to avoid last minute confusion and above all to keep my blood pressure
under control. But today I arrive late, leaving several conversations with scholarly
friends half way, saying that those would be continued when we meet in
Trivandrum again after two days. A benevolent auto driver takes me to the
railway station and he does not overcharge me. At the ticket counter, the
booking clerk, a black Mamma, takes her sweet time to punch in a ticket. At the
enquiry counter, a young lady whose voice turns into the sound of an android
when it passes through a speaker tells me that my train has already come at the
platform number four. Steps on the flyover literally fly past under my
scurrying feet and I reach a compartment next to the pantry car. Fragrance of
various food items waft in the air. The pantry attendants are now relaxed as
Eranakulam is the last major junction where a majority of the passengers get
down after a forty eight hours long trip. I get a comfortable seat and I try to
focus on myself before focusing on other people in the compartment. Last two
days were really hectic with animated and spirited conversations till midnight.
I try to gather myself and my thoughts, and then try to kill the thoughts one
by one till I become vacant. That is a difficult task. But I feel peace and
slowly I go into a deep, no not meditation but sleep.
Seated opposite to me there is a young man and a woman whose
age I cannot determine vis-a-vis the age of the young man. When I wake up from
my comforting slumber, I see this young man and woman. From the paraphernalia
that they are carrying along with them I understand they are headed to a
hospital for the large envelops are typical to medical reports and X-rays. For
a moment I feel that both of them are healthy and their purpose of travel must
be different. However, when the young man gets up to go to the washroom, I see
him slightly labouring himself to control his body. He gets up and straightens
his body with considered efforts. I imagine that he is the ill one. But the
lady looks extremely silent though her face shows some kind of tiredness that
is not a result of either travel or fatigue. It is the kind of silence and
tiredness that we see on the faces of those people who undergo some sort of
deep sorrow. She is neither young nor old. Some white hair along the hairline
that borders her forehead slightly betray her age. The young man comes back
from the washroom and whispers something to her and she promptly takes out the
large envelope and pulls out a transparent file. I see a bunch of papers and
receipts and to my shock I read the print on one of the papers: ‘Regional
Cancer Centre’.
(The Book Cover of Ram Kinker and His Works by K.G.Subramnyan)
I feel a sharp sense of anxiety cutting though my innards,
for no reason. I recognize that this young man is suffering from cancer. I
still do not know what this woman is to him, mother or sister? She looks too
young to be his mother and too old to be his sister. I study their profiles and
facial features; they look alike. Now I am sure about their relationship; they
must be brother and sister. He picks up a couple of papers from the file and
takes out a ball point pen and sets to work. The woman gives him a popular
weekly which she was seen reading when I entered the compartment. He starts something
on the paper with serious concentration. I watch him working on it. Now I know
that he is sketching something. I get this eerie feeling that he wants to
sketch me. But he does not look at me. He keeps drawing and covertly I glance
at the movements of his right hand. Initially I think that he is drawing a
woman sitting at the window. But he does not look at her either. Then I think
that he is drawing an imaginary girl who is wearing a skirt and blouse. As he
draws the legs, I immediately get this feeling that he has lost it. Soon he
finishes his sketching and starts giving some highlighting touches here and
there. I cannot hold my curiosity any longer. I ogle at his drawing and find
that it is the picture of a Roman soldier, may be a sci-fi character; a sort of
memory drawing. He hands over the drawing papers and pen to the woman, she
takes it in her hands and looks at it without any change in her facial expression.
Then she keeps the papers back inside the file and keeps it inside the large
envelope.
Once again the young man gets up laboriously and goes to the
washroom. I feel like asking the woman about him but resist myself and wait for
the young man to come back. Soon he comes back and the silent conversation
between them takes place. As he settles down, I prepare myself to ask my
question. I ask him whether he has studied art formally. And he replies in
affirmative. I ask for the school’s name. He says the name of a private art
institution in North Paraur near Eranakulam. I have not heard about it. He asks whether I am a painter myself or not.
My answer is in negative. But I tell him that I am an art writer ( I did not
want to confuse him with the titles like art critic or art historian) and
explain it further saying that I write about art and artists. Why I do not
paint or draw is his next question. I tell him that I do not know how to paint
or draw. He tells me that he took out pen and paper to sketch me as he thought
that I looked like an arty person. He also says that he recognizes arty people
by looking at their hands. I think here he has gone wrong. My hands look more
like those of a worker than that of an artist. I remember someone commenting at
the Baroda station ticket counter as I was standing in a queue for my ticket
and was speaking to a friend in English, saying that these days even the
working class people speak in English. With my chosen Spartan looks of all time
worst during the student days, there was no surprise that stranger took me for
a labourer.
As he speaks on about art, his liking and disliking, I ask
him why he did not choose to study art. The woman leans backward and moves her
lips in order to tell me that ‘he is unwell’ and I tell her in the same way
that I understand. I come to know that she is his mother and he is thirty years
old. His father is a tailor working in North Paraur and his brother works in
some gulf country. He left his studies by the time he finished his schooling
(tenth pass) and did not try for admission in art schools as he did not have
the required basic qualification. But since then he has been practicing art and
been working as a graphic artist and animator. He has contributed his artistic
skills as an animator in one of the recently released movies in Malayalam, he
tells me. Soon he moves to the technical matters about art; how to know more about
colour mixing, is there any book of tips on line drawing available in Malayalam
language etc. I search in my memory for information and I fail miserably. May
be there are no technical books in Malayalam about learning how to paint or
draw. I ask him why he needs to go through those books at all. He says that he
wants to ‘learn’ more about techniques. I tell him technique is perfected as he
goes on sketching, drawing and painting. He goes silent for a moment. Then I
speak of him about artists who have gone beyond techniques and suddenly I
remember that I have a couple of copies of ‘Ram Kinkar and His Art’, a book by
K.G.Subramanyan which I have translated into Malayalam. It was released a
couple of days back in Kochi by the cultural minister of Kerala.
I offer him a copy of the book. He takes it in his hand and
looks at me some kind of disbelief in his eyes. I tell him that the copy is for
him. He, with a great enthusiasm goes through the pages and I sense that he has
been hooked by the images of Ram Kinkar Baij’s works. I tell him more about Ram
Kinkar Baij and how he worked without heeding much to technique as he was a master
craftsman by nature and by practice. This young man has too many questions and
I answer them patiently. I ask him whether he keeps his drawings and sketching
for future reference. This time the answer comes from his mother. She tells me
how he destroys his drawings periodically after studied review of his own
works. I tell him about the need for preserving his works. He says that his
main ambition was to make a bust of Lord Shiva in cement and concrete. Not so
big, but still big enough, he adds. Then he goes into silence. His mother tells
me that it was then he was detected with cancer; he is affected at the lower
end of his spine. Doctors have advised an operation. But they have not given
any assurance, says the mother. He could even go paralysed from waist, if the
operation fails, she adds in a matter of fact way. I do not know what to tell
her. Soon he changes his tone; once again he becomes enthusiastic about his
opinion on art. Interestingly, he even talks about art market and the kinds of
money that art could make. Then he asks me the crucial question; is it
necessary to conduct exhibitions to become a great artist? The question is
naive, I know. But I tell him that exhibitions are perhaps not necessary but
having a body of work is important.
Superfast Kerala Express has been running like a local
passenger train and it is already a couple of hours late from the scheduled
time. I realize that my station is approaching. I take the book from his hand
and scribble down on the title page the following lines: Art heals the body,
art heals the mind, art is the ultimate medicine that heals the deadliest of
diseases. I write in Malayalam and sign under it. He takes the book back and
reads it. His mother too reads it and her expression remains unchanged. I get
up to walk towards the door. I hold his long fingered palm with my worker’s
hand and tell him: You will go back healed. And you will make your Shiva.
I want to believe that my words come true, though I am an ordinary
mortal with no divine powers.
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