The Artist

Shankar paused and sucked in a breath. The staircase was pitch-dark, with no one in sight. He reached out his hand to feel the wall. With the other hand, he held his cell phone to provide some light. He steadied himself and climbed. The wooden stairs creaked.

“This better be worth it.” Shankar muttered. Kabir, the master artist who he was to meet, was a legend. Everyone in Delhi’s upper class swore by his name. The millionaire industrialist, Aamir, called him India’s Da Vinci.

When Shankar saw the master’s work, he was awestruck. He vowed to acquire a Kabir painting someday. Come hell or high water. Or a darkened staircase from a previous century, living on its last legs.

No one knew much about Kabir. Where he came from, who his family was, even his last name. His paintings were traded in the underground market accessible only to the wealthy and the powerful. Those who acquired his work firsthand wouldn’t talk. At least not publicly.

Shankar’s garment business had sky-rocketed in the past year, putting him squarely in the rich man’s club. He made the right connections, started a few discrete inquiries. One person led him to another. He threw money around like it was paper. Funny how a few extra zeros in a number can make even the most tight-lipped folks sing like a canary.

Eventually, he found the master’s liaison, Pankaj, who arranged a meeting. So, he found himself climbing the staircase of that dilapidated building at an ungodly hour in the morning. The instructions were strict. He had to arrive at sharp six fifteen. He had to be alone and dressed in a yellow shirt. Eccentric frickin’ painter.

Shankar reached the end of the stairs. A rustic wooden door loomed before him, chipped all over. He checked his watch. Six fourteen. On an instinct, he decided to wait. A person this crazy could well be offended if he showed up a minute early.

At precisely six fifteen, Shankar rapped his knuckles on the door. The door swung inwards by few inches. Two dark eyes stared at him.

Shankar cleared his throat. “Yes, I’m Shankar. I’m here to meet Kabir.”

The eyes flickered. No words were spoken in response.

The door swung shut. Shankar blinked. He gritted his teeth. “Wait. Let me in. I’ve followed every instruction. Its six fifteen. I’m alone. I’m wearing yellow. I haven’t told anyone.”

The door opened again. Little by little, until it was fully open. The man standing there had an oval face, a frail body and curly, unkempt hair. He wore a yellow kurta and yellow pajamas. His eyes never left Shankar, who felt naked under his gaze.

The master stepped inside and gestured for Shankar to follow. The living room was dimly lit. Newspapers and magazines were scattered around. On a wooden drawing table lay white sketch papers and brushes. Next to it were two low brown stools. There was no other furniture.

The master sat cross-legged on a stool and pointed to the other one.

Shankar lowered himself on the stool. “You are Kabir?”

The master made no attempt to reply.

“Okay, so I really love your work.” Shankar said. “I loved it when I first saw it and I just have to have your painting.”

The master just stared.

Shankar paused, and went on. “I have a special fondness for cats. Any felines, actually, but especially cats. I keep several of them as pets. I would be delighted if I could get a painting of a cat. A painting so magnificent that it should be more alive than a real cat.”

The master’s eyes flicked from side to side. “A cat you say?”

Shankar smiled, relieved to get any response. “Yes. I’m willing to pay any amount…”

The master waved his hand in dismissal. “What kind of cat?”

“A Persian cat, with black fur…and a long tail.”

The master nodded his leonine head. He stood up abruptly. “Come back in two months. Same time, same clothes.”

Shankar stood up. “Alright, thank you so much. I can pay in advance. How much…”

The master frowned, “Later.”

Two months later, Shankar rushed up and knocked on the door, bristling with anticipation. He was about to see his Persian cat come to life. He could scarcely contain himself.

The door swung open. The master was dressed in the same yellow kurta and yellow pajama. He glared back at Shankar. “It’s not ready. Come back in four months.”

Shankar’s face fell. “Four more months? But…”

The door had already swung shut.

“Crazy freak.” Shankar muttered. He left the building, grumbling to himself. He had no choice but to wait.

The more he waited, the stronger his anticipation grew. He identified a spot in the living room where his Kabir painting would be displayed in full view.

After four restless months, Shankar raced up the dark staircase and knocked on the door.

The door opened. The master’s clothes were disheveled and his face unshaven. A musty stench emanated from him. He grunted. “Not yet. Six more months.”

The door slammed close. Shankar still hadn’t caught his breath. “What the hell’s going on here?” He shouted. He clenched his fist and punched the wall.

He rubbed his knuckles. This was insane. How long would he flounder at the whim of this psychopath? Was he really India’s Da Vinci as they claimed?

Shankar went home and consulted the affluent circle. Their advice was unanimous and unambiguous. Wait. If you have a chance of getting a Kabir painting, then just wait for it.

Shankar resigned himself to waiting. Every night he dreamt of his forthcoming painting. He marked the exact spot on the wall and wandered around it, imagining his Persian cat there. He could think of nothing else.

A year after he first met Kabir, Shankar knocked on the door for a fourth time. He said a silent prayer.

The master opened the door wide, with a hint of a smile on his lips. “Come in.”

Shankar’s eyes lit up. His face flushed red. The moment had arrived. He followed the master and sat on the stool.

The master took an empty white sketch paper and positioned it on the drawing table. He carefully arranged his brushes and paints. He began work.

Shankar watched him wide-eyed. It was like watching trapeze artist. Every stroke was graceful and precise. His hands waved the brush on the paper like a magician’s wand.

Ten minutes later, the master paused and studied his work. He beckoned Shankar to look.

Shankar looked at the painting and went weak in the knees. The Persian cat had fluffy black fur. The tail extended back and curled upwards. The nose was small but distinct. But what really left him speechless were the eyes. Two jet-black pupils danced amidst a white backdrop. The eyes called out to him. They connected with a part of his sub-conscious that he couldn’t understand. He wanted to cuddle the little thing like there was no tomorrow.

Five minutes passed, Shankar still stood like a statue. The master had a contented grin.

Shankar stammered. “Yes, yes…this is the best thing I’ve ever seen..yes…this is it…this is perfection…” He took a deep breath. “Thank you so much. How much do I owe you?”

The master wrote the amount on a piece of paper. Shankar looked it and nodded. “I will bring the money first thing tomorrow.”

As Shankar started to leave, a thought occurred to him. He turned to the master. “This painting is amazing…it’s beyond amazing…but, I saw you paint it in ten minutes. Then, how come you sent me away before? Why did you make me wait so long?

The master just smiled.

Shankar shook his head. “You were amusing yourself or something, ha? Is it your fetish to toy with the emotions of people like me? What the hell were you doing for one year if you have such a god-given talent that you can paint a masterpiece in ten minutes?”

The master walked inside his bedroom and indicated for Shankar to follow. He went up to a tall cupboard in a corner and opened it.

Several bundles of paintings tumbled to the floor. Shankar examined them. They were paintings of black Persian cats much like the one he had. He went to the cupboard and found it packed to the brim with sketches of Persian cats. There must have been at least a thousand.

“This is what I was doing for the past year.” The master said softly. “I haven’t rested for a single day. You say I have a god-given talent. But the truth is that I don’t. No one does. Talent is acquired after endless hours of patient work. I had to perfect every shade, every shape, every brush stroke. It took one year of practice before I was able to produce, in ten minutes, the thing you have in your hand.”

Shankar’s mouth hung open, his eyes glazed. No wonder the guy was so eccentric. He nodded, took his painting and left. For the first time in his life, he understood what it took to be a true master.