I Like Custard by Aniruddha Banhatti (book reader for pc TXT) 📕

I Like Custard


The fluorescent hands on the wrist-watch pointed to 2.00 pm as he torturously descended the dark, mossy, spiral steps of the tower. Now the light from the entrance was visible. He came out of the door and the clamoring, undulating sunlight attacked him. He screwed up his eyes ....
And woke up. The wall clock was softly chiming two. It was 2.00 a.m.
He opened wide his screwed-up eyes. All things were bathed in shades of black and white -- vague grey shapes. Ranganathan put on the light. All colors came to life. The bed sheet with its diagonal stripes of pink flowers, the blanket with its interwoven green squares in black and brown, the oil-painted canvases stacked in a corner, a blank canvas mounted on an easel with a black dot at the centre, the wooden color of the easel, the light pastel shade of the wall, the smallness of the room and the totally black north windows opening onto the night. The tiny details of every color became sharp and clear.
Ranganathan yawned.
His studio itself was his living room. Fifteen feet by twenty. On the terrace. In a corner. As if specially built for him. On the 13th floor. The entire terrace belonged to him. Ranganathan collected his fragile body from the bed. He had been quite lucky since he came to Mumbai. He had two exhibitions at the Jehangir Art Gallery. During the first, he had sold a nude for 4,700 rupees. And at the second, three graphics for 1,300 rupees each and four nudes at sumptuous prices. He could now afford to leave his Madrasi friend's house and rent this place all to himself.
Ranganathan scratched the Bulganin on his hollow cheek. After renting this place he hadn't finished a single canvas. A week had passed since he set up the easel. And still only the one black dot at the centre. Was this the effect of the foolish political environment? Who knows.
Nowadays he used to dream the same dream every night. His eyes screwed up one moment and then wide open the next. He took up the file containing reviews of his two exhibitions. All the critics had raved about his talent. Glancing through them, he grew sleepy. He flung the file on the table, switched off the lights near the bed, and within five minutes started snoring.
His sleep was now dreamless.
When he woke up the next morning, Ranganathan's attention was drawn to the black dot on the canvas. Laziness swelled up within him. He wanted to get rid of this lethargy and start working again. But the dream was not coming to completion. Every night around two o’ clock, he woke up. Every night it was the same dream. It began with a canoe. Bright sunlight. Shining water. And rowing that canoe, he approached the tower at the centre of the shining water. Tied the canoe to the railing around the tower. Jumped over the railing and went in through the entrance of the tower. Climbed the spiral steps ascending. Covered with moss, golden-green-dazzling on the first three steps. Through the arched door, the moss lost its dazzling quality and acquired a bluish tinge. Afterwards only the faint outline of the steps remained. Then gradually total darkness. He had to climb the steps supporting himself by placing his hand on the moist wall. There must be light on the top of the tower. Because from a distance, a window was visible. But for the last week, every night in the same dream, Ranganathan hadn't yet reached the top. Suddenly in the dream, he got the vague feeling of something remiss, and used to look at his wristwatch. It always was near two p.m. So he climbed down the steps, came out through the entrance and when the undulating, clamoring sunlight assailed him, he screwed up his eyes and woke up with screwed-up eyes.
***
Ranganathan got up. Performed his morning duties. Descended half the staircase from the terrace to the lift. Went down and brought up the milk-bag. Took out one and a half spoon of peaberry coffee from a tight-lidded jar he had brought from Madras and quickly shut the jar again. Ya! The aroma shouldn't be wasted. Prepared coffee on the electric stove and had it. Wow! Now to roam sunny Mumbai for the day! He covered the milk. Closed the three north windows, locked the door and descended half the staircase to the lift.
***
Ranganathan sat chewing a paan contentedly on a concrete bench at Nariman Point in the happy daze produced by a full meal consumed a little while ago. His threshold being low, a strong beer used to give him a sufficient kick. Today he hadn't even taken that. He was comforted by the wind. Shining water. Splendid sun. Dots of black canoes.
Then something happened.
Ranganathan got out.
With ease he descended the embankment wall and the slope. There was a bluish looking canoe separated from the sunlight at the shore. Ranganathan got into it and rowing through the clamor of sunlight on the waves, pulled away. He looked ahead. The tower had come up through the sea. Very near. As if it was not there before. It swayed and flickered against the wavy background. His canoe reached the railing. He tied the rope of his canoe to the railing surrounding it, jumped the railing and entered inside. Started climbing the steps through the entrance of the tower. All the steps were covered with moss. Golden-green- dazzling on the first three steps due to the sunlight. Through the arched door, the moss lost its dazzle and acquired a bluish tinge. Afterwards only the faint shape of steps. Then total darkness. He had to climb supporting himself by placing his hands on the moist wall. Lots of time elapsed. Ranganthan lost all sense of orientation. Only up and down. These were the only two directions that remained. And the path going upwards like a line revolving around another line. This time Ranganathan didn't suddenly switch his decision from climbing up to going down. He had lost that power. He was simply being pushed up and up and up due to antigravity like being spiraled around a line in total darkness. Slowly, the faint dark shapes of steps were becoming visible. Then a grey door appeared into view with steps leading to it. Ranganathan climbed the steps and stood in the door. He had reached the top of the tower. Only a window, not even showing the blue sky, but merely a white square. Against that whiteness, silhouettes of figures. A table and chair, rising from the black base of the square. A black dish merged with the table and a human figure merged with the chair holding a spoon near its mouth and two thick wavy white lines of steam against its raised hand. The open mouth of the human figure. All the images in dark, totally black. Raised from the black bottom of the square white window. Only color other than black or white was the grey of the chow in the black dish. The human figure was preoccupied with eating, oblivious of Ranganathan. The moving lines of white steam against the blackness. Ranganathan looked and waited for a while. Turned back. The silence so far in this dreamlike state was broken by a sentence, "I like custard."
Ranganathan looked at his wristwatch. The fluorescent hands were between two and two-thirty. He descended the dark tower calmly with the help of gravity, step by step. The clamoring sunlight assailed him as he got out. He screwed up his eyes. His bluish canoe was tied there. Jumping in, he rowed the undulating sunshine and reached the shore. The canoe landed with a thump in the sand on top of a receding wave. He got out of the canoe and looked towards the sea. The tower had vanished on the horizon.
Floating, as if lifted up, Ranganathan got into his body seated on the concrete bench.
Something had happened. Ranganathan didn't understand completely what it was. He only knew that the black dot he had put on the canvas had turned into a complete picture in his brain. Now the only thing left to do was to reproduce it on to the canvas.
***
When he had finished his painting, Ranganathan looked at it affectionately. The dynamism of the steam emanating from the grey chow was captured perfectly. Except the grey chow, the picture was in black and white. The basic colors. White being the mixture of all colors. Black being the absence of all colors. Grey being the mixture of presence and absence.
After this painting, his lethargy left him and Ranganathan went on to paint many canvasses. He titled this painting, "I Like Custard."
He didn't want to sell this painting. But all the same, he exhibited it in his third and subsequent exhibitions and marked its price at seven million rupees. In India he had seven more exhibitions. Then his fame spread. He exhibited his paintings in Paris. In that exhibition a true blue Brit purchased "I Like Custard" for the French equivalent of seven million rupees and placing it in front of the exhibition, poured petrol on it and set it afire. It made quite a news.
***
From the next day, unpredictable things started happening in world politics.

Publication Date: 06-10-2010

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Dedication:
To my dear wife MANJU