Tag: Kottayam

By Shevlin Sebastian

There is a large grey wave painted in the middle of the canvas. It is falling over a large group of people standing on the edge of a seashore. Many men wear skullcaps. The women have black burkas. The group has widened eyes and open mouths. Some have turned their backs to flee. Others have raised their arms and clenched their fists, as if they are about to break into a run.  

At the bottom of the canvas, on the left, there is another group of people. They are also standing on another seashore, with windswept hair. There is a woman with a large sindoor in the middle parting of her hair. A young man, in jeans, has a necklace with a gold crucifix. A boy stands with a placard showing a dove with a leaf in its beak. The words, ‘Let’s all live in peace,’ are written in bold, red letters. Others raise placards with slogans like ‘Say No to communalism’, ‘Syncretism is in our DNA’, and ‘We are all brothers and sisters in this great nation’.  

Painter Ashraf Mahmood steps back and stares at the image. A slight smile plays on his lips. He had woken up that morning and this image had come floating into his mental screen. Ashraf kept staring at it, eyes closed, lying on his back. His wife had got up and gone to the kitchen. Alia liked to make her tea using Tata Gold. He preferred Brooke Bond Red Label. So they made separate cups. 

When he entered his studio on Mira Road, in Mumbai, at 9 am, he got down to work, using an easel and grey paint. 

He worked steadily. It was silent inside. But Ashraf did register the outside sounds of a typical Mumbai street. The horns blowing. Tendrils of smoke from exhaust pipes floated in through the window. His nose twitched as he noticed a foul smell. It seemed as if somebody had thrown garbage on the street. Ashraf closed his nose with the tip of his fingers for a few seconds. “The crazy smells of Mumbai,” he thought. 

He grew up near Mandvi Beach in Ratnagiri (343 kms from Mumbai). The air was fresh, and the wind blew constantly. The only sound was the roar of the waves and the beautiful sight of seagulls making circles as they flew above the sea. Ashraf’s father, Mohammed, was a government school teacher. His mother was a homemaker. He had two elder brothers and three sisters. Ashraf was the youngest. He displayed artistic talent from his school days.

Unlike most fathers, Mohammed encouraged his son. His father took him to an art teacher, who taught him how to draw and paint. Ashraf’s major breakthrough happened when he got admitted to the JJ School of Art in Mumbai. After that, there was no looking back…  

It was evening when he finished the work. His soles ached. Ashraf had been standing for hours. 

This image reflected all that he felt. The grey resembled the growing intolerance towards Muslims. This seemed to be overwhelming especially in places like Uttar Pradesh and Madhya Pradesh. There was the rise of majoritarianism. And the fracturing of relations between people of different communities. And yet, Ashraf felt that the DNA of the people over centuries was syncretic. A ready acceptance of people of all faiths. 

It was only the hate campaigns, through speeches, social media, and songs, that had swayed the people. He was sure the fever would die one day. Syncretism would rise again. “After all,” he thought, “throughout human history, love always conquered hate. But it took time.” 

Ashraf wanted to tell the viewers of his work not to lose hope. And hence the pigeon and the symbol of peace. For the title, he used a quote by the Greek philosopher, Aristotle, “Hope is the dream of a waking man.”

Ashraf rubbed his chin a few times and walked to a table on one side. A packet of fresh buns lay on the table. Ashraf opened a fridge. He took out a container which contained butter and a bottle of strawberry jam. He sliced the bun into half with a stainless steel knife, placed butter and jam in between, and began eating it. These were fresh buns from a nearby bakery. Ashraf had bought them when he had stepped out for lunch. He made tea on the gas stove. Then he sat on a stool near the table and sipped it. 

This was his 35th year as a painter. Now, at 55, he could look back with reasonable pride. He took part in regular exhibitions and won a few awards and grants. Profiles of him appeared in the newspapers and on social media. His paintings sold, thanks to his realistic and simple style. An art sensibility was only gradually building up among the people. Ashraf knew that images drawn from his unconscious mind had a pulling power. Why this was so, he did not know. He remembered how one art critic described a David Hockney painting as having a ‘psychological charge’. Hockney was a renowned English painter. Ashraf realised that art needed to have a psychological charge if it had to have an impact.  

But Alia had already made an impact on him. He met her when she came to view his exhibition one day at the Jehangir Art Gallery. She was slim and tall, with curves that were accentuated by the chiffon saree she wore. Like Ashraf, she came from a small town. Through grit and perseverance, she passed competitive exams and got a government job. They went for dates. Ashraf was smitten. Within a year, he proposed and they got married. 

Alia was a superintendent in the sales tax department. She would earn a pension once her career got over. She had another ten years to go. Their two daughters had married and settled down in Aligarh and Delhi. Both had two children each, a boy and a girl. 

Alia wanted Ashraf to earn more money. But he was not a hustler or a man who liked to build a network. If a buyer came and offered a decent price, he sold it. Most of the time, he remained isolated. Sometimes, he met other artists at exhibitions and art seminars. He would chat with them. But that was all. 

He was not keen on extramarital flings or experimenting with drugs or drinking too much. Ashraf led a steady life. In many ways, he was happy with the way his life had turned out. 

He washed the cup and the pans. Ashraf placed the cup on a hook which hung on a wall. He had yet to finish the bun. 

He made his way back to the painting. It was 5.30 p.m. In half an hour, he would close his studio and walk back to his house, fifteen minutes away. The couple owned their apartment. Alia, with help from Ashraf, had cleared the bank loan over 15 years. 

At this moment, he heard a murmur of voices from outside the door. Ashraf wondered what it was. The sound arose. “Was there an emergency?” he thought. “Is the building on fire?” 

He came to the door. Ashraf saw that the lock was coming under strain. It seemed to be bulging backwards towards him. Somebody gave a violent kick and the door sprang open. Ashraf moved to one side.  

A group of young men rushed in. Some wore red bandanas. Many were in T-shirts and trousers. Some had thick, muscular arms. They were shouting. It seemed like slogans. In his shocked state, Ashraf could not register the words. They rushed to the canvas on the easel. One man, using a long knife, sliced the canvas into two. He pushed the easel.  It fell with a clattering sound to the floor.

There were a bunch of finished canvases placed on one side. Ashraf had been doing work to showcase in an upcoming solo exhibition. The group spotted it. They rushed there, pushed the canvases to the floor, and began ripping them one by one with their knives. Within a few minutes, the work of several months lay ripped out. Ashraf remained by the side of the door. He had not moved. 

“Hey you Muslim kutta (dog),” one of them said. “We will come again if you carry on working. No art for Muslims. Clean the sewers. That’s the only job you are good at.” 

Ashraf half-expected one of them to stab him. But they didn’t. They left as quickly as they came. 

Ashraf felt as if a large, round ball had settled at the base of his throat. He could not swallow it nor could he spit it out. 

He blinked many times. Ashraf wasn’t sure whether this event had actually happened. It took place so fast. But there was no doubt about the ripped canvases lying all over the floor.

He felt a pain in his heart. Ashraf rubbed the area. “I hope I am not having a heart attack,” he thought to himself, as he took in lungfuls of air to calm himself down. Employees from other offices on the same floor came to the door. They entered. Most had goggle-eyes. 

“Sir, what happened?” one young man said.

Ashraf shook his head. 

“I don’t know,” he said. 

“Who were these people?” a woman said. 

“No idea,” Ashraf said, as he surveyed the damage. 

“Sir, you will have to call the police,” another man said. 

“Yes, I will,” said Ashraf. 

A couple of men shook his hand. 

All of them surveyed the damage silently. Work was calling them. “All chained to their desks,” thought Ashraf. “At least, that way, I am free. No boss on top of me. No attendance marking every day. No targets to meet. No one shouting at me. But then, no steady income. And no camaraderie. Large amounts of time spent alone.”  

Then he returned to the stool, returned to the present, and placed his head in his hands. 

‘What’s happening to this country?’ he thought. ‘‘There seems to be a collective madness. Indians attacking Indians. And these young people were ruining their lives by working for political leaders. They will be used and discarded.”

He had not seen them before in the locality. They might have come from some other area. Was it a deliberate ploy to send a shock wave through him and the community? Who knew how they thought?  

What should he do now? 

Ashraf realised he had to think rationally. He stood up and went to the door. He realised immediately, he could not do anything immediately. A carpenter would have to be called tomorrow. 

He called Alia and informed her about what had happened. She said she would come directly to the studio from the office. Ashraf called up his media contacts, both in the print and visual media. They said they would arrive with their photographers and cameramen. Ashraf took several photos and videos on his mobile phone, documenting the damage. 

He would have to report the attack at the police station and file an FIR.     

Ashraf realised his work had been ruined, but he would recreate it. He had photos of all the canvases. 

To prove to himself, he had returned to normality, he went back to the table and finished the rest of the bun. He put the butter and the jam back into the fridge. He washed the plate and the knife. 

Fifteen minutes later, Alia arrived. 

In silence, she stared at the canvases lying on the floor. Ashraf saw her press her hand against her open mouth. He realised it was a silent scream. 

In the end, she came up to Ashraf and said, “They have tried to violate your dignity as an artist and a person.” 

The couple hugged. 

After a while they broke away. 

“Don’t keep the canvases here anymore,” she said. 

Ashraf rubbed his chin with his fingers. 

Finally, he nodded. 

“There was something strange about the attack,” he said. “They didn’t overturn the table or the fridge. And for some reason, they did not assault me. It seemed to me they had to leave in a hurry. So I got saved.”  

Alia said, “They are keeping a watch on everybody.” 

“Yes, I read online there is a pervasive deep state,” said Ashraf. “In every neighbourhood there are spies who report about all that is happening.” 

“What is the next step?” she said. 

“I am waiting for the media to come. After that, I will file the FIR,” he said. 

At that moment, a few print and TV journalists arrived. 

Ashraf spoke to the reporters. The photographers and cameramen began recording all that had happened. 

They left after half an hour. 

The couple then shut the door, as best as they could. But there was a small gap at one side. They went to the police station. The police allowed an FIR to be filed against ‘unknown persons’. He faced no hindrances because, as Ashraf surmised, the police were aware of his reputation as an artist. 

The couple took an autorickshaw and returned to their apartment.  

Alia changed into a nightgown. She washed her face, and informed their daughters about what had happened on her mobile phone. 

Ashraf changed into a T-shirt and shorts. He made a glass of whisky mixed with water for himself. Every night he had one peg. 

As he sat on the sofa, nursing his drink and staring at the TV screen, he felt the pain arise in him. It was an ache in the middle of the chest. To see his work treated in such a callous manner was a calamity. He wondered whether he would ever overcome this fear that had come into him. Work on a piece the whole day and in the evening, somebody could come in and rip it up. 

Closed doors did not offer any protection. It was a time of lawlessness. People with criminal behaviour could operate with impunity. Leaders wanted to instil fear in people. 

And would he be able to recreate these ripped-up paintings with the same intensity? He was not sure.  

On the screen, some leader was having his say. His eyes enlarged, he made violent movements with his hand, and spoke with a loud voice. “Horrific,” thought Ashraf. “How do you create art in this environment?”

Yes, indeed, how do you? 

But it did not take long for him to tell himself, “But we must, whatever be the cost. Art is the candle that brings light to the darkness.”

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Shevlin Sebastian has worked for magazines like Sportsworld, belonging to the Ananda Bazar Patrika Group in Kolkata,​ The Week, belonging to the Malayala Manorama Group, ​in Kochi, the Hindustan Times ​in Mumbai, and the New Indian Express in Kochi. He has also briefly worked in DC Books at Kottayam. He has published about 4500 articles on subjects as varied as films, crime, humour, art, human interest, psychology, literature, politics, sports and personalities. Shevlin has also published four novels for children.

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