The Autumnal Amazon

By Sayoba Roy

Seasons deceive me all the time.

Early summer mornings make me fidget for a duvet in sleep, late winter afternoons make me curse the thermals under my dress, sudden murky clouds in the middle of a sunny day leaves me stranded at the bus stop and autumn... - well, the lazy autumn evenings are the cruellest of all - it makes me miss someone , that 'someone' who makes me fall for every spring - to every balmy day of spring!

Likewise today was supposed to be sultry per se, but as I am heading to the museum chills are forming through my skin - the never ending discrepancy of body and mind. The job of a curator was received suddenly, just like the first snowfall of winter. The Director of the museum knew my father, thus my obsession for antiques got a motion and I got to spend time among faces that don't do the talking - probably getting the most silent yet the most crowded workplace in the world. My father had a different take on life - he preferred reputation more than an occupation. He was actually besotted with his job of a diplomat, changing addresses every now and then, perfectly fitting to the saying 'Lived in Many, Stayed in None'. Is there any such saying? Maybe I made it up while being half asleep in my mother's arms, arriving at Srinagar - the fifth layover of my fifteen years of rambling all over the world. Well, my mother could have stayed somewhere, could make me feel like I belonged somewhere, to at least have a vision of home when I was asked to draw one in school, but she chose this continuous drill. She definitely had her perspective as well to choose duty over the distance.

When you have such dutifully besotted parents to yourself, then you have to indulge in some rebellious stuff from childhood - initially to get attention and then making it a habit. So, becoming a curator was one of that kind. Choosing this was not solely a device to capture their attention, but definitely nurtured to gain the glint of closeness to creation - just like those days of winter when the sun rises not to provide warmth but just to make you realise that it is morning. His transfers got the best of me through the unrequited awe of the mystery of each place visited, of the stories of each person met and finally reducing it to the beauty of that one person...discerned.

As even the blazing summers had to surrender its pride to the mellowing showers of monsoon, my father's ailing health forced him to retire to a desk job in his department. Though we were supposed to stay there for over a year, the air surrounding the household already carried the news that it was supposedly his last transfer before further development in his health. Though I was not preferably welcomed in all the dynamics of the household and I never complained,I could feel where I was happy to finally return to my grandparents, their son not liking the idea much, trying to press it in every trifling discussion possible with my mother. I understood that it was an untimely retreat of the monsoon, much against its will,failing to properly drench the craving soul of desires.

I still remembered the day, the day when the sun looked brightest in Srinagar as we were intruded into our bungalow. The luggage was carried in. The rooms were assigned. The meals were served. All were satiated. Except for my boredom. I skipped my nap and tiptoed through the newly found verandah. It led to a secluded place in the backyard. I heard some voices, unknown but loud. A boy, who looked like an adult though, was advised to keep a check on his expenses. I glanced towards the scene, captured two paint-smeared fingers holding onto some brushes and a few other art supplies lingering at its feet. I wondered whether those things were the cause of the heat or the result of the same. More the rebuke rose to reach its climax, the more the hold on the brushes tightened in his grip, and released immediately after the figure disappeared from his sight. He seemed to be quite acquainted with the entire scene, surely adapted through prior rehearsals. He made an attempt to gather those -

" Are they all wasted?", I asked.

"Nothing more than they already were", came the reply.

"I think I have some of those with me, you can use them for now if you want.."

"No need, I'll manage.Thanks though."

The conversation was brief, yet remembered. When I now come across the art supplies at stores, I hope that he has enough of them or the world would definitely remain unknown of some colours that it might have borrowed from. The thought brought a smile and I almost forgot about the chills forming earlier until the banner in front of the museum gate brought my attention back. Today is a special day,indeed! An auction is supposed to be organised at our hall for the few paintings and sculptures that are waiting for their rightful bidders. Though I hardly have any active involvement during the show, still I need to have my presence felt by keeping a record of the things being brought in and sold out. When I entered the hall I noticed some paintings being still held up while others were getting the initial price tag. I took notice of the surroundings only to find the Director talking to the staff and throwing a welcoming smile at me. I went to my desk, reminiscing about a day just like this one in the past.

A week had just passed in Srinagar. My father suddenly announced a housewarming party to blend with his colleagues outside the periphery of office hours. We were all aware of these gestures by then, totally seasoned to his deliberate show of grandeur and business. So, from the morning of the event, I could see decorations being monitored on the porch, chairs were being arranged, food was being delivered and above all a few designs were being made at the entrance. I followed the trail of the designs and arrived at the same fingers of that afternoon,surrounded by new colours and pallets .

"Looks like you really managed it after all..."

"These are not mine, I had to borrow them from one of my friends for today. They are paying me for this."

"Oh. Then they must have invited you as well"

"Your mother did. She learnt from my father that I am into drawing and can create designs, so she came the other day and asked me to make a rangoli at the entrance."

"This however doesn't look like a rangoli though"

"I know...But this is the best I could do. Finding those powdered colours is a bit tough in this town..So I thought of making it into a drawing."

"It is beautiful..resembles to that of a mandala"

"What's a mandala?"

The urge to continue the conversation appeared that day for the first time. I want to delve into those a little more when I am startled by the sound of glass, shattering at a distance. I run towards it and find to my relief that it is just one of the bulbs of a chandelier. No harm. More importantly, not much loss. I would have never been able to value money if I hadn't left my house a few years back just to test my abilities far away from the influences of my father. I am not successful totally, even the Director, Mr. Dutt of Mindscape Art was known to my father. I didn't ask for it, but it came out like that, just like the unwanted rainfall on a gloomy winter morning. Since I am already awake from my inert self I thought of going round the gallery once again, just to check on the functions. There is a centre stage with flower decoration at its rim , and a podium is made for the auctioneer. Just across them lie chairs on both sides of the aisle and a large brass diya T-stand waiting for the light of inauguration. The hall was adorned with lights, each of which initiating a different dimension to the paintings. I always try to be alone in these moments where admiration needs no approval, thoughts are pure and devoid of genial gabs and could easily take me back to the place when such feelings invaded me for the first time.

It was cold, it seemed eternally cold in Srinagar. At 8 in the morning, there was hardly anyone around. Only the porch and the garden still bore the evidence of yesterday's party, waiting for the servants' special attention this morning. Thinking about yesterday, my eyes automatically surveyed at the back of the garden and found those hands skimming through the pages of the book that he at last borrowed from me yesterday. It was actually an atlas !

"I am still not over the fact that you haven't seen any atlas before.."

"I have , but didn't get a chance to hold it as I am doing now."

"You can keep it, I can buy another one"

"No need….Sorry. Thanks...It's better to listen to them than to actually learn about them"

"True that...You always learn to forget but discover to remember"

"You know right, sometimes your words seem poetic but they don't actually land how they should", he laughed through the line.

"But it serves the purpose" , I scoffed.

"How many of them have you visited?" I continued, turning the pages at intervals.

"None" . I hate those replies where he leaves no space to ponder - comes with a period instead of a question or a repetition, leaving me no space to answer or confirm. But this time, it continued with a quick pause and that too from the other side.

"How many of them did you cover?"

"Few of them, Delhi, Nepal , few islands of Indonesia and here", I pointed to the Amazon, "South America".

"And what did you discover to remember?"

"Whenever I look at something new, I assign it to my discovery only and hence manage to remember most of them."

"Ah! Then let me rephrase it - what do you remember the most?"

"I remembered the Amazon, it surprised me to the fullest"

"Why so?"

"There are hardly any seasons. It is just one humid season with lots of rain."

"Jammu is also the same. It's one cold season with lots of snow"

" But, snow stays."

I hoped another laugh would follow this. But,he behaved otherwise. This time I put the stop, leaving no space for him to follow. But, nothing in these conversations were planned, not even his intrusions.

"I read that in school, always wanted to know how it felt like that"

"I liked it, though Manaus, the place where we stayed, had very few people but I am quite accustomed to that."

"You stay in a country where almost every season is celebrated. And you were so relaxed with no change at all?"

"Seasons deceive me all the time. I like stability. No feeling under the weather, no pollution, excess oxygen, less movements."

"Is it true?"

"What?"

"That the sunlight doesn't reach the ground of the forest?"

"Yeah..That's for real. And it seems so powerful that way."

"Defying the very existence of the Sun."

I never thought someone would get that. So soon.

"Yes...You grow up thinking about it providing all the light, all the energy to the earth, the mightiest object in Nature, and then suddenly your entire admiration shatters realising it failed to reach to a place where you required it the most."

"You're talking about the...Sun?"

The words broke into my reverie. The Sun? Was I supposed to talk about the Sun? Did I make it very clear? Yes? No? I couldn't even remember the beginning to rectify the end. I just nodded, and hoped he would reach the conclusion.

"It seemed like I could borrow your comment about the Sun to define Abbu."

"Your father?". I knew the question was stupid, but I needed to confirm at that moment that it was actually him, speaking and not my mind who wants to utter the same.

"Hmm..He had been working as a caretaker of this bungalow for over ten years. Last year we shifted to that secluded place in the backyard. He had never really encouraged me for my drawings and paintings…"

"Your art…"

"Sorry?"

"I said, your art."

"That makes me an artist?"

"You're not?"

"I would like to be one."

I don't know how many paintings I have covered remembering him. I don't know how many days were covered watching him paint. My eyes got stuck at a particular one in the museum. It was named "The Painter Within a Painting". There was a painter painting himself being engrossed in making the same painting.I laughed at my dimension- it made me remember the day where I caught the painter in action.

Almost three months have passed in Srinagar.We hardly met after that morning. I was busy with school trying to cope with the new curriculum, sometimes falling in with the scenic beauty of the place, but not too much, and at other times noticing my father staying in his office, way too much. Sometimes, I never found my parents together within the household. Maybe the number of rooms had given them so much space that they had forgotten to be close. One such room was discovered and hence, remembered.

"I never knew you had this room."

"I don't, you do"

"Me?" , I asked.

"Your mother had handed me the keys to clean it for the puja. So, I asked her if I could keep the supplies here, away from Abbu. Hence, here I am."

It was not a large room, just enough space for a person to build a studio. Moreover, his paintings all over the place made it look more clumsy. But, I got no chance to complain. I could finally take a look at his art after such a long time. It seemed a piece of Srinagar was captured in each canvas. I could see our bungalow, the place where we usually plant the sunflowers, the porch as it looked on the day of the party, the town during evening, the mountain during morning, the shops of the town selling embroideries, even the car in which my father leaves for office everyday. And, a painting of a forest was kept by the window for drying.

"I told you it's nothing like art. Just capturing random scenes.."

"That's not random. It is called photorealism."

"Do you have a name for everything I do?"

"Who stays in this world without a name?"

"I am strictly against putting a name to paintings because it kills the dimensions. Now this is the car in which your father leaves every morning. But to me it works like an alarm. When I see it leaving I know I have to prepare for school and when it arrives I know it is time to fire the logs. I sometimes don't need the clock."

"But it brings out a uniqueness. Now there must be a number of paintings of a car. How could you define to the world which one is yours? I would love a job where I can look at those for hours and try to see why the painter named it so."

"Like a critic?"

"Not to conflict, but to conserve."

"You mean a curator?"

"Sorry?"

"I said,curator."

"I would like to be one."...Someday. That day we bonded, bonded over a brilliant business plan of a curator and an artist thinking to make it immortal just like an art.

Mr. Dutt comes up to me with a sudden rush in his heels. He enquires about the number of paintings delivered and whether I had cross checked with the agency about their numbers. Once assured, he leaves the place wondering where to find some other staff to crosscheck about some other stuff. I had to make another attempt to revisit the walls to take a final look at all the paintings. I stop at a place - the wall still vacant, appearing totally unbothered to all the chaos. I questioned the staff and came to know that one of the mini trucks was late due to the traffic. It is carrying the missing painting. I checked with the driver and he gave me a ten minute ETA. I was relieved, hopefully everything was sealed.

But that day I was quite unhappy as everything was getting sealed in small boxes. We were leaving Srinagar, prior to the expected time. Before leaving,I tried to search for the person to let my final goodbye receive its owner. But he was gone. I didn't have the courage to enquire about him in the servants' quarters. I saw his Abbu taking the luggage out of the bungalow and securing it in the trunk. I thought maybe he missed the news of our departure, maybe waiting for me to deliver the news or maybe it was like any other farewell for him, so he missed it purposely. I felt no more. I had to get into the car. Had to board the plane. Had to depart. Had to return. All was over. Except for my separation. But before leaving I managed to slide the atlas, a box of new poster colours and a note through the threshold of the room, without waiting for a response. That day,it rained in Srinagar. Sudden, but accepted.

I came back to my senses as the guard informed me about the arrival of the last truck. I approved its entry and followed through with the next protocols. I could see a painting coming out of the cover, rather a familiar painting. I know those strokes of the brushes to create leaves, those shades in the dark to create mystery, those trembling strokes to create branches, those sprays to create mist. I am aware of every inch, every dimension of this painting. I had seen it before, left by a window to get dry. But why does it look so same yet so different? Something changed. But changed for the good. The picture had a sun at the left corner, allowing its rays to reach the forest floor, without any compromise. I could hear the picture, it failed to reach a place where you required it the most . I checked the list. The last one is named "The Autumnal Amazon" by Saki. Had I had the slightest knowledge that today the Amazon would receive its first season, I would have definitely savoured it alone, and wouldn't have dared to make a public display of its warmth. But it was too late. I had my reason to own it, but was doubting my sanity to claim it.

It was turning cold inside the hall. So I decided to leave everything and rush out of the hall with the ridiculous hope that maybe without witnessing it I could convince myself of never conceiving it.

The next morning,I just could not make up my mind to go to that place again. Too many thoughts. Too many doubts. Too many occurrences. Too many memories. But I had to reach there, had to face questions of my unexpected withdrawal, without the slightest expectation that the morning would settle everything on its own. When I reached there I could not find the painting, which must have been sold. Who could have ever been able to shun the sunshine? Mr. Dutt came up to me with a worried look. I apologised to him for my prior behaviour and blurted out the best possible excuse that crossed my mind then and there. I returned to my office with the purpose to finally put my mind into something. I had to reassemble the unsold paintings and get them back to the agency. As l was busy doing so, the guard came up to me with a rather apologetic face. I found a note in his hand and he said, "Someone from yesterday left this for you, Madam. I tried to give this to you but you left". I took it and dismissed him. I opened it to read :

I always wanted to give you this in person. But you left. Once again. Though the decision of selling it was taken in a haste, I'm sure I would be the one regretting it at the highest. You saved me from that. Now, I can sell it no more. Not when I have finally found its rightful owner. Amazon was always yours. I just put the season of fall into it. Making it immortal just like an art. I have withdrawn my name from the auction and am going to leave this for you to the Director. I have some unfinished business in Srinagar. Hope to leave as soon as it ends. But if we ever meet , I just want to ask - Why didn't you stay ?

Saki

By Sayoba Roy