The Sculptress
It was a hot and humid July afternoon. The sky was hailing embers down on earth. The sun, in his backster’ mood wanted us, the puny mortals for his celestial luncheon. Stealthily, she entered into the porch trying to tame her messy mane, rubbing her face with her shirt’s sleeve. Her face and hands were smeared with mud. It was difficult to discern the colour of her soiled uniform until you know it were white and Navy.
Barely seven, yet she knew she had to face the hurricane now. She was brave enough to be beaten black and blue and then smile back teary eyed after the storm passed.
“You did it again, filthy girl? O’ God! Please correct this mistake of mine”, agitated Mother cried and threw the cane-stick, her frequently used tool. Even the stick was tired of the girl.
She hurled her school bag on the floor, tossed her socks like flying saucers and stealthily opened her lunchbox. It was her new creation. A knight, a clay idol made by her. The reason behind our Mom’s anguish.
The little medieval clay guy was still wet holding a spear made of toothpick and pencil shavings. His shield and armors were painted in thin layers of watercolors. She used to borrow colours from brother as he was the only one among us who could buy things of his choice. Made up of waste and painted in borrowed colours, the clay soldier was sculpted with utmost finesse, too perfect for a seven years old.
Gradually, a Sea-change began in our house with a Sculptress in the making….
Quite older than her, four years to be precise, I knew her prowess. But our mom had reasons for not allowing this new talent in her household. There was no place for any such art in her life. A mother of four, hardly 27 who was stuck in a run-of-the-mill life, she knew how to raise four kids with much expertise in spite of all odds.
Clay, colours, paints….all were forbidden in our home. Not only because those things made us dirty. Mom had other valid reasons behind the implementation of her diktats which she revealed to me one day.
She was beaten yet again that day for soiling her clothes. She had sculpted a crocodile figurine for our brother’s school project.
“This is unjust, Maa! Why do you always punish her for the very same things we get appreciated for? Why are our hobbies boon while hers, bane?” All the siblings were artists. My brother used to paint and I sing.
Mom sobbed. She flung the stick and said, “Don’t you know? Those who give life to soil, lose their lives to soil. A sculptor’s lifespan is doomed to be short. I punish her for I want her to live long. I don’t want her to sculpt and die young.” She told me about a Bollywood movie she had seen, “Geet Gaya Pattharon Ne‘. The protagonist of that flick, a sculptor dies young because of continuous inhalation of stone particles. Mom hated art, especially sculpture.
However, can anyone ever stop a stream, zephyr or an artist? She was relentless. She grew as a celebrated artist. She created lifesize idols and true-to-life portraits with optimum precision and utmost finesse. She earned a name in our city.
She made us all proud. Mom, gradually accepted the mess and leftovers of Clay and Plaster of Paris idols. Her stained outfits were accepted, gradually. When angry, she used to make weird cartoons of Mom. In her animation, Mom was a lady holding a broom or at times riding on a broom wearing a long gnome hat.
She was an introvert. A coy girl, well mannered and a giver. Her friends used to call her ‘Lady Christ’. She was even mocked and called a ‘Nun’. She was a spartan with small dreams wanting to be a good daughter, sister, wife, mother…. grandmother…. She wished to love and live longer. Vineeta, thy meant humility, as modest as her name.
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She wept the most doleful tears that day watching her creations set ablaze. People related to her BY LAW treated her unlawfully. The creator was disgusted because of her creations, talents and for a million other things she was not….for her being alive. Her works of art were labelled as hexes and she was cursed. Colours, canvases, brushes and all objects of her desire were dejected as they were not part of the damned dowry she brought along. Only valuable metals and hard-cash were welcomed. Not even the bride, because she was a jinxed artist, as they said.
They claimed that her idols brought ill omen to her house by law. She was labeled a Jinx when she was betrayed and cheated. His betrayal was justified because she was a hapless artist, a doomed painter, a damned sculptress. She was told, it was her fate, not his fault. Her canvases, her effigies were called blighted, the reason for his bigamy. Her Kinsfolk in Law took pride in doing everything that was against the Law, even against humanity. Her creations were trashed to public garbage-bins and burnt. Rest of the torments were beyond expression.
That day, she wept woeful tears for many deaths. The house which was hers by law was outlawed for her.
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The Phoenix resurrected from the ashes. She emerged, flew and abandoned all which was cliché…then plunged again into those dying embers, still burning within. It was her inferno…her Love for the ART.
She loved her family and even forgave the philanderer. She sang, painted, sculpted and created a new rainbow out of this dark devil world.
She strove against those iron shackles in which her soul was snared since ages. She broke all the barriers, set her conscience free… but suddenly realized, she was tied with another delicate silk thread…and she was trapped, …again…
As our mom said, the Sculptress had a short longevity. She was ill. Doctors said, her white blood cells are growing rapidly producing proteins more than normal. She was allergic towards colours, paints, adhesive and Plaster of Paris. She was allergic to foul smells since childhood but never paid a heed to her olfactory sense. Like all things beautiful around her, her ailment too had a fancy name. Waldenstrom Macroglobulinemia, a rare blood cancer which occurs to one in a million of Leukemia patients.
Love never allowed her to set free her spirits. A gentle breeze stroked the fire…she was paying for the sins others did to her…and she hated herself…she hated life. She hated me for not trying my sweat and blood to save her. My phoenix flew along the zephyr towards her paradise leaving us, the puny mortals in the abyss of her loss.
VALAR MORGHULIS….
It’s a high Valyrian quote which means, “All men must die…”
But, she would never die. She made her world alive, happening, beautiful. She induced many to do so including me, In spite of being younger than me.
That day, she held my hands tightly. I said, “Don’t go!” …She couldn’t speak. But her eyes spoke, “Never say die”… then, she closed those tormented peepers ….forever….
She made me a mother of three. Strong, willing to live, invincible. I promised her….
I always find her besides, saying, “Nil Desperandum”! Her glowing eyes speak, “I’m still smouldering beneath my cinders. I will rise from my ashes. Soon…” The Sculptress wanted this world to be vivid, vibrant and beautiful.
VALAR DOHAERIS….
All men must serve, as the Sculptress said… So, I decided to write her in the ink of fire. For a Phoenix always Arise From her Ashes….
NATRAJ , the 6 feet tall idol of Lord Shiva by Vineeta, the Sculptress…
She evoked Natraj, the god of Music, but Shiva, the god of Death granted her the venom held in his throat… He poisoned her blood… Mahakaal, the god of Time snatched moments from her timid life.
The mist turned mephitic on that deathly morning. It echoed ‘Winter is coming’. At 5 AM on 15th of January, 2020, winter froze my world like never before. She wanted to say a lot but could utter only sounds I failed to discern. I kept on asking, she tried hard. I was flummoxed. She lost her 8 months long battle with Waldenstrom Macroglobulinemia and I lost my faith in superpowers. She shuffled off her mortal coils the day when the whole world was celebrating Makar Sankranti.
I tried my sweat, blood and tears to save her but met with the failure. Death snatched my beautiful sister away with its cruelest pangs. I lost my confidante, my only friend, the illustrator of my poetry, my singing partner….my only Sister…my baby…. In spite of all my efforts, I couldn’t make her last journey peaceful. The tortures she endured in the last 10 days in hospital, the excruciating pain she had to bear in ICU still make me insane. Can’t get off her last glance when she was breathless yet forced to breathe on ventilators. I would never ever recover from the pain I saw on her face when doctors throttled her during CPR before my eyes. I have lost my essence, my Sangeet with Vineeta, the Sculptress…I’m writing this tributary on her birthday on 10th of June. And, it’s not at all a HAPPY birthday.
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