It was one of those early days in the first-year of my campus life. Not having found anyone who took any interest in me and my pencil sketches yet, I used to wander around in our campus with my sketch book and pencil, looking out for anything that caught my visual fantasy.
It was a very beautiful campus with green repleteness everywhere. There was this lush fenced lawn near the canteen, green-green tennis court near the white gigantic block of auditorium, and even greener trees of many varieties that only a Botany teacher could identify. My eyes picked up enough to fill half of my sketch book in the first few days itself – the pillars along the corridor of our library, the tennis court with the auditorium as the background, people coming out of the canteen, the campus couples sitting under the trees, the gang of friends near the department store… and then there was him, sitting alone beneath the mango tree around corner of the library. Yes! That was the first time I saw him.
The ripe-yellow leaves on the bench, the green foliage above, the blue sky with puddles of white clouds over all the aboveness, a lonely fair handsome youth reclining on the wooden bench and a couple of sparrows pecking around near his stretched feet. It would have been unjust to capture that moment sans the colours. That was the first time I ever wished I had a camera and not my sketch book.
It seemed like he dozed off but I heard him humming in a low note. The sparrows took flight in haste as my foot approached but he didn’t move. He didn’t notice it even when I went and stood in front of him. His eyes were closed. He continued humming: Oru vattam koodiya puzhayude theerathu, veruthe irikkuvan moham...
I was careful not to disturb him while I took my seat on the bench. His rendition was soulful and the low note made it all the more engrossing.
I took a close look at his profile. He had sharp features: thick black eyebrows, wavy hair, long and curled eyelashes, sharp nose well rounded at the tip, clean shaven with sideburns that stopped at half the length of his ears, thin lips and a black mole with a couple of thin hairs sprouting out of it at the chin below his right cheek. There was also this well pronounced Adam’s apple that kept pulsating to the notes of the song.
The moment I opened my sketch book he stopped humming. He raised his head and turned to my direction. His hazle-green eyes were bright and piercing and it appeared as if he looked through me.
“Who is that?” he asked.
I couldn’t reply. It was as if his eyes transfixed me on my spot.
“Is there someone?” he repeated.
I still couldn’t respond. I saw his right hand fumbling at the edge of the bench and he drew out a walking stick. He got up and walked away relaying on the stick to guide his way back.
He was blind.
Now, that’s unfair. How can he be blind? He is someone who pursues beauty just like me. I knew it from his song, the way he was singing it. He is an artist. How can an artist be blind? How could he pursue beauty without seeing it?
All the greens, yellows and blues, his youthfulness, the soulful music… and blind? Darkness? The vibrancy around me suddenly turned grey like my pencil sketches.
Going back home, I flipped through my sketch book. How limited is art? It’s only figments of life we see in a painting, a photograph, a pencil sketch, a video clip. What about the other dimensions of life? How can we capture that? Through music? Dance? They too impart us with only figments of the emotion in an artist’s mind.
I felt my heart heavy. I was silent during dinner and my mom was busy in kitchen and my sister over the phone to notice it. My dad had not returned from work yet.
I couldn’t sleep that night. The song kept coming back again and again: Oru vattam koodiyen... But its lines didn’t carry the charm it was supposed to. I felt the music full of pathos. A longing for something lost; something you always wished for…
I tried to sketch his profile from my memory but in vain. His eyes kept staring at me from everywhere—hazle-green ones, set on a youthful face but those that did not have the light to see its own beauty. It pained me. I do not know whether I cried but my cheeks felt wet with tears.
My mobile rang, breaking the silence of my room. It was Anjana, Anju, as I called her. We got hooked to each other in our high school and have been going steady since the last four years. Anju is one of those chirpy kinds who always find something amusing about the world around her. She is never short of incidents that are sometimes surprises and at most times shocks to her. And she has never failed to fill me up with a share of those surprises and shocks ever since we met.
Some people never change, do they? But I’ve no complaints. Anju is best with her little surprises and shocks. I like her that way. And the best-ever part is that she hardly ever notices it when I’m gloomy. She would just barge into my private world with all the chirpiness in the world and chase my gloom away. She keeps things alive for me.
The only time I saw her actually crying was about a year ago when Tubby, her Golden Retriever, died of food poisoning. She was uncontrollable, tantrumous. I was at my wits end trying to pacify her. She still thinks it is her neighbour’s little son who did it. She always referred to him as “that little brat” and suspected him of feeding her dear dog with chewing gums and “stuff” she didn’t approve of.
After school she took up Psychology for her graduation and I, English Literature. Since there was only one college in our town offering a degree in Psychology and because I could not get an admission there, we ended up in different campuses. I never understood her fancy for psychology. She is someone too restless and with the attention span of a fish. What interest she possibly could have in studying human minds?
Nevertheless it was something fresh for a change, for we were inseparable all through high school and I hardly made any new friends. It was not the same for her. She was popular in school – studious, high-spirited and involved in any and every activities there, where as I was a loner, engrossed in my sketch books. And if there were any friends I made in school it was always through her.
But we met every weekends and she never failed to call me before hitting bed.
And here she was: “Hello Vikki, how did the day go for you?”
My name’s Vikram and she called me Vikki. You know the ways with our kind. It is like a rule to have pet names for your dear ones, isn’t it?
“It was nice. Nothing in particular but nice. Yes nice,” I said.
“Hm… You know something? My aunt from UK sent me a bracelet--a crystal one. And wow! You must see it. It’s the best-ever thing she could have send me, isn’t it?”
And that’s another thing about Anju. No one can ever gift her anything which isn’t the ‘best-ever’ gift she can be gifted with. My first gift to her was a pencil sketch of her profile and it was the best-ever gift I could have ever given her. I felt happy when she said that but later found out that all the chocolates, Valentine’s cards and anything and everything I gifted her also became the 'best-ever' things I could have ever gifted her. It might sound a little annoying but to look at it from the brighter side, there's no way you can make her unhappy. She’s someone determined, unconsciously though, to stay happy always and that’s the best-ever thing I like about her.
Ops! Didn’t I say her chirpiness was the ‘best-ever’ thing I liked about her? Maybe also her positive attitude. That makes two ‘best-ever’ things I like about her. And did I say she was this gorgeous looking babe in school that every bloke was eyeing for and I became the lucky one? Her curly hair, her wheatish complexion, her mirror-cracking figure… These are some of the other best-ever things I like about her.
But to be honest, we do fight occasionally and that’s because we’re entirely different people and it never gets serious. And of course she always puts an end to it before I could even attempt.
To look at it from a typical guy-point of view: she’s like a petrol engine—swift, smooth and easy to start, where as I’m like a diesel engine-heavy, jerky and has difficulty in starting. It still amuses me how we came this far in a relationship.
Gr… See! This is what I told you. She’s highly distracting. She’s contagious, like a virus; adorably and sometimes even essentially so for a person like me. Gosh, think I was with her for too long!
Anyways, getting back to my story - she narrated her entire day to me like I was a recorder of her daily updates. I kept my responses minimal with an occasional 'yes' here and a brief 'hm' there. The melancholic song, his eyes… They kept me distracted from her lively banter. There was a momentary pause once she was done. But silence is a luxury if you’re with Anju.
“Anything wrong Vikki?”
The pause again.
“I’m asking you. Anything wrong?”
“Nothing, just…” I didn’t complete my sentence.
Pause again.
“Please speak up. Your silence is annoying me. ‘Just’ what?”
“Nothing Anju. It’s just this guy I met today.”
“What about him?”
“He was blind.”
“Blind? Oh! And, what happened? Are you alright?”
“Oh, come on. It’s nothing. It’s a guy in my college. I met him today. That’s all.”
“And?”
“And nothing.”
“Do you realise you’re spooking me? What about the blind guy? What did he do to you? Why do you sound so dull?”
Now, that was a surprise. So she does notice it when I’m a little off-mood.
“He sings beautifully,” I said.
“Okei. And…”
“And nothing.”
“For God sake! You met a blind guy in college who sings beautifully and there’s nothing?”
“Yes. I suppose so.”
“Gr… Why should that make you sound so dull?”
“I don’t know. Maybe it’s generally a dull day for me.”
“God! Don’t do this to me.”
“What?”
Pause again.
“Vikki, are you alright?”
“Of course I’m Anju.”
“No, you’re not.”
“Yes, I’m.”
“No, you’re not.”
“Yes, I’m.”
“I say you’re not feeling good.”
“But I’m alright Anju.”
“You stupid moron! I think you’re mad. I hate you.”
The line went dead.
I didn’t know how to resolve this. I knew I annoyed her but it was not my fault, was it?
I picked up my mobile to call her and say a sorry. But as always she dialed me before I could.
“Vikki.”
Pause.
“I forgot to give you your goodnight kiss.”
She kissed me and hung up before I could say anything.
And no sooner than later could ever be, came a text message from her saying she was sorry to have shouted at me.
I called her back, told her about him and we chatted almost half-way through the night.
***************************
I went around the corner of the library the next day to see if he would be there again. The bench lay empty except for the ripe yellow leaves strewn over it under the shade of the tree. There were no sparrows either. A light playful breeze rustled the leaves and each of it shifted place on the bench.
***************************
A couple months had passed since I walked into this campus. Slowly people took notice of my existence and I made a few friends and a decent fan-following for my pencil sketches. Almost during every lunch breaks, I’d find someone with a request to sketch their profile for them.
But somewhere deep down, I felt very shallow. I knew I had to shift my focus on photography. Not that it was better than sketching but I felt it did more justice to life than sketches on a white sheet. At least, the limitations of a human hand could be compensated through a shutter and lens.
My dad gifted me my first camera on my birthday and that nearly marked the end of my sketching times. I taught myself on using the camera. I spend my time reading magazines on photography, surfing the internet for more photography techniques and of course experimenting with my camera.
I took many ‘best-ever’ photos of Anju, tried my hands at nature, macro, black and white and whatever was possible within my limited knowledge. I then tutored myself in photoshop techniques and I found out that I could make the photographs even better, manipulate it, give it special effects and what not?
I took part in many photography competitions and won prizes. Mr. Alex Thomas, one of the faculties in the Visual Communication department in our college took notice of my talents. He started giving me private lessons in photography and video production at his home whenever he had enough time to spare. He suggested I tried my hands at cinematography and he was not wrong. I was a quick learner and became one of his favourite students.
Once on a visit to his home, he introduced me to a popular cinematographer who was his good friend. Soon he started inviting me to assist him informally whenever there was a shooting location set up within my reach. Everyone except my dad was happy with the strides I made in life. Anju was the happiest and once during our mindless conversations she said I was the ‘best-ever’ thing that happened to her. I felt very proud.
***************************
Occasionally I went around the corner of the library to find him but never saw him anymore. During one such trip I learned that he was Tanzeen, a final-year student of Commerce and was the best singer in the college. I also learned that the bench was his favourite spot and he would come and sit there humming a song.
***************************
It was the college cultural fest and the auditorium thronged with people. I rushed in when I heard his name being announced for the light-music event. That was the only other time I saw him in college.
He stood on stage dressed in a white shirt and dhoti. His eyes were set on the applauding audience as if he could see them all.
The guitarist started strumming and he started singing: Neermizhi peeliyil neermani thulumbi...
Yet another memorable Malayalam melody and if we were not familiar with the popular song by KJ Yesudas, I’m sure we would all have preferred his rendition to the iconic singer’s. It was soulful, every note in place and he left us all humming the tune for days after the event.
***************************
The next two years in college passed like a dream for me. I started assisting the cinematographer more often, and though I had troubles with my teachers in skipping classes, I made up for it by scoring decently in exams.
Once I started working with him, I knew this was what I was cut out for in life and I put everything in it to learn more about the art. My dad was not happy about the field I choose. He wanted me to do an MBA after my graduation and take up a well-paying job with some big corporate firm and get settled in life. On the other side, Anju and Mr. Alex proved very supportive. They took care to keep encouraging me in my endeavour.
It all began to pay off. I started getting independent assignments and I began to climb up the ladder to fame and money. Two years after my graduation, I got my first invitation from a much noted South Indian filmmaker to crank the camera for his movie. The movie was a success and I got the State award for Best Cinematography for that year. That was the first time I saw the smile of satisfaction on my dad’s face. He said: “I was worried son. Not that I disapproved of what you did but I was skeptical. But now I’m sure you’d go a long way.”
And in no time I became recognised, sought after and one of the best in the trade. I shifted my base to a bigger city where it was convenient for my work.
Anju went on to do post graduation in Psychology and did an MBA in correspondence. She got her first job in the same city as I was as a Soft Skill Trainer. It was a big relief for me. We met almost every day unless my work took me away.
I thought the life in a bigger city and her professional life would sober her down a bit. But I was wrong. She started entertaining herself with bigger things than spoilt kids in her neighbourhood.
“I think most of the politicians suffer from multiple personality disorder,” she once floated the idea when we were having cold-coffee at a snack bar.
“I mean, why would they say one thing today and say just the opposite tomorrow? I think they go to sleep as one person and wake up as another the next day. Poor guys! I wonder how many different personalities are hidden in each one of them. What do you think?” she said and started blowing bubbles in her mug.
I was taken aback not so much by her new theory but by the way she skipped from one subject of discussion to another. A moment ago we were discussing what car we must buy after we got married. She was saying she was not much particular about the make of the car so long as it had the fox-orange paint. And without a warning she starts talking about politicians and their multiple personality disorder.
Some people never change, do they? On second thoughts, it’s better that some people stay the way they are. In fact, it’s always the ‘best-ever’ part of having one such person in your life.
***************************
Years passed. Anju and I got married and in no time, we found ourselves parenting a four-year old naughty boy who showed all signs of becoming a chip of the not-so-old block that his mom was. My sister too got married off. My father had retired and my parents came to stay with us in our newly built home. There was nothing in life to complain about. But I felt this sense of dissatisfaction growing in me. I started loosing interest in my work. I began to reject many good offers that came my way. I sulked a little and Anju was sharp enough to notice it. She confronted me one day with it.
We were lying on our bed and suddenly she asked me: “What’s bothering you? You don’t seem very lively these days? Anything you’d like to discuss?”
“Oh! Nothing Anju. I’m a little tired. That’s all.”
“No. It’s not that. You don’t seem quite alright. There’s something bothering you. Tell me what it is.”
“Nothing Anju. Just nothing.”
She sat up on bed and stared down at me. “I say you’re not feeling good.”
I knew where this was leading to and I kept silent.
“You moron! I think you’re mad. I hate you,” she shouted and hit me with her pillow.
I got up without a word and walked out to the adjoining balcony and stood there staring at the star studded night sky. There was a crescent moon but which was bright enough for me to focus my eyes on the surrounding. My neighbour’s dog was digging a hole in their new lawn. It was so silent that I could hear it clawing the earth. Suddenly as if by some magnetism, the dog looked up at me and started barking. The silence was broken.
I didn’t hear her coming. I suddenly felt her arm on my shoulder and I turned to look into her eyes. She smiled sheepishly at me. The two words were never said. We never had to apologize in the few years of our togetherness.
Back on our bed, she drifted off to sleep and I kept awake, staring at the nothingness in our room.
Yes. I was not happy at something in life. It appeared shallow. Something seemed missing but I couldn’t say what.
Suddenly I remembered the blind youth back in my college days. I remembered the first time I saw him—his song, him walking blind to the bounty of beauty surrounding him. The stark contrast.
I realised I could still not find that one medium that could portray real life through arts. All and any kind of art forms could reflect only figments of life. Art is a prisoner in its own confinements. How shall I… I don’t know when but I drifted off to sleep.
***************************
Our son started showing interest in music and my mother became keen on putting him to music lessons.
She suddenly revealed to us a much forgotten dream of hers. She wanted me to train in music when I, as a kid, started howling tunes of popular songs I heard. She claims to have put me to music lessons when I was old by single digits. It seems I had to be taken out of the class when my howling became a disturbance for the other students. Now, honestly, I do not remember anything of the sort from my childhood. Would she have made up that story? Anyways, she gave a good reason for Anju to take digs at me.
We started looking for music schools in our neighbourhood and everyone recommended the school run by a young couple two streets away from where we lived.
It was a Sunday morning when I and Anju walked into that school with our toddler boy tugging behind his mom. He was not happy at his parent’s decision. Sundays are play-time, all-time, for him and he felt mortally offended when he was told he was going to be put in a music school. It was only after much pacifying by his grandma that he agreed to get into his dress for outdoors. But he was no one who keeps his silence about his annoyance. He screamed, threw tantrums all through the way to the music school.
We waited at the reception for about ten minutes before a young woman in her late-twenties came to attend to us.
“What shall I do for you sir?” she asked.
Anju handed over the kicking kid to me and started talking to her. I never realised kids were so strong for it turned blue-black where he kicked me on my leg. I sobered him with one of my best glowers and that was all he needed. He immediately transformed to the ‘best-ever’ kid in town.
“She’s saying he can start with keyboard lessons and then progress to other things if he shows interest. That sounds pretty good, isn’t it?” Anju asked me.
I nodded in agreement.
Our host asked me to wait at the office adjacent to the reception for her husband to come and complete the registration process. She then led the other two inside.
I walked into an aesthetically furnished office and took the seat at the desk. I looked around and saw trophies neatly arranged in a shelf at the corner, and photographs on the wall of a young man with iconic singers like KJ Yesudas, SP Balasubramaniam and with a young girl that I later identified as the much popular Shreya Ghoshal. I was convinced that our son was in good hands.
I suddenly felt the presence of someone behind me and I turned to stare into a much familiar eyes.
Those hazle-green eyes!
It was him.
I didn’t know whether I was shocked or pleasantly surprised. I stood up speechless.
He went around the desk and took his seat and asked me to be seated too.
He clicked on the keyboard of the computer on the table and turned to me with a smile. I caught his eyes darting in all directions as he turned to face me.
“Your name sir?”
I couldn’t say a word. I gulped.
“You still there?”
“Yes… I mean yes.”
“Your name?”
He promptly typed in all details required.
“That’s about it sir,” he said with a smile as he handed me the receipt of the first installment of the fee.
“Tanzeen?” I said as we got up.
“Yes.”
“Don’t you know me? You were my senior in college. We have met once, I mean…” I stopped my sentence midway. I realised the stupidity of what I was about to say next.
“Oh, really! I’m so sorry. I do not recognize your voice,” he said and extended his hand for a handshake.
We sat down again and I told him about how I saw him near the library and how it changed my life. We talked about arts, music, politics, life in general... We chatted for nearly an hour only to be interrupted by Anju who walked in with our son.
“It’s so good to have met you again,” I said as we stepped out.
“It was nice talking to you too.”
And before I got back into the car I turned to look at him again, standing with a smile and looking in our direction as if he was watching us all. I uttered a 'thank you' under my breath.
I knew I got the answer to all my questions.
He was blind. He turned his blindness to a gift. He saw things his own way. He never tried to pursue beauty. He had music. He perceived beauty in things. He loved his life. He lived it.
All these years, I was seeking an answer which was so simple.
I felt myself lighter as we drove back. I was smiling and humming a tune.
“What? You seem to be very pleased,” said Anju.
“Nothing,” I said and continued humming.
“Oh, come on. Why are you so happy?”
“Nothing Anju. I’m just… Just happy.”
“You’re mad.”
