by Janet Sola
A stout man appears in a doorway, the round belly under his white shirt a fat mountain compared to the hungry, craggy peaks of the cow’s shoulder bones. When he sees me eyeing the sign, he extends his arm in a flourish. “Welcome to my shop. Very nice painting here,” he says. “Very old. Come, I show.” I hesitate for a moment. I don’t have money to spend on paintings, and I don’t want to leave the spectacle of the street, and yet I find myself drawn in.
“Yes, OK,” I say. “But I only want to look.” I follow him into a small courtyard, centered by a fountain gone dry. Off to the side, in a small room revealed by a partially open curtain, a slender man wearing a white turban sits on a cushion. His back is toward me, and he is bent over a miniature canvas. He holds a paintbrush in one hand while he taps a rhythm on the floor with the other, as if he’s bored, as if he’s been doing this forever. His hands are striking, dark and fluid and experienced, as if they belong to someone very old. Abruptly, the proprietor crosses to the alcove and pulls the curtain shut. “Please come to my shop,” he says, as he opens another door off the courtyard.
I follow him into a dimly lit room. The hypnotic sounds of a classical raga float down from a boom box on top of a tall cupboard. After the brightness of the street, it takes a moment for my eyes to adjust to my surroundings. The walls are bare. The only pieces of furniture are a few large cupboards and a counter covered by scratched glass. There’s a smell of dust and old things in the air that reminds me of the attics of my childhood. A tingle goes through me, as if I’m a little girl about to unlock a trunk full of secrets.
The proprietor places his hands on the counter, then looks up at me from heavy lids, and says, dramatically, “Very fine paintings I show you, American lady.” Well at least he didn’t call me “madam.” From somewhere he fishes up a box and shoves it under a rusty lamp.
One by one he pulls out the miniature paintings and displays them in the circle of yellow light. A young woman plays the lute in a night garden. A man waits outside in the rain while his presumed beloved looks on scornfully from her window high above. An extravagantly dressed girl primps in front of a mirror being held for her by maids. There are scenes of the god Krishna and his milkmaids. Scenes of tiger hunting and of great battles on painted elephants. Some are crudely done, others very skillful. And yet I’m disappointed. It’s obvious to me that the paintings are not old. They are bright, fresh, newly minted copies of famous old miniatures, made, of course, for tourists like me, probably by people like the turbaned painter I had seen on my way in.
“Do you have anything old?” I ask him.
“These old,” he says, gesturing to the pictures on the counter.
“Do you have anything older?” He looks puzzled. “Very old. More old. Most old.”
His eyes gleam. “Ah,” he says. “I have one you are liking very much.” He turns around, unlocks the cupboard, and removes a single painting. He places it on the countertop, positions the light over it, and carefully pulls back a tissue overlay as if it were a delicate skin. In the painting, a figure swathed in blue from head to toe—it’s impossible to tell if it’s a man or a woman—sits cross-legged under a tree edged in gold and stares out at a small fire. At the shrouded figure’s feet, a lion reclines, its maned head resting on supine paws. Each tree leaf is a precise jewel, the column of smoke a thick braid in the sky. There’s something about this painting that makes me want to gasp or sigh, but I know that would drive the price up. “Hmm,” I say.
“Perhaps one hundred year old.” The shopkeeper lowers his voice. “See, very, very old writing.” He turns it over to show me that it’s been painted on the back of a manuscript page covered with a finely wrought script in a mysterious language. “This artist is great master. This is from old book. Look. Very nice color. Blue is lapis. Coming from Silk Road on high mountains. Gold is true gold.”
He moves it back and forth under the light to better show off the glint of the gold edgings. It might be old, it might not be. But it’s beautiful. The brushwork is very fine, the colors are exquisite, pale, the shades of a desert dawn. But that’s not what attracts me. I’m enchanted by the expressions of the shrouded, meditating figure and its lion companion. Both seem to look inward to their own thoughts and yet outward to each other and the landscape around them. There is a shared understanding between the meditator, the lion, the tree, the fire—and even the desert backdrop with its parched hills and hazy blue sky—that says something like “the great adventure of life is simply being.” The painting seems to embody the elusive thing I’m seeking. Transcendence. Transformation. I’m not even sure what to call it, but it’s a place beyond the fears and anxieties that I want to leave behind. It reminds me of something I can’t quite call up, almost like a memory that hasn’t happened yet.
“I give for twenty thousand rupees. Very good price, very special painting.” I can’t quite do the math in my head, but I know this is a ridiculous sum, representing weeks of meals, lodging, and transportation. He must have seen the admiration in my eyes.
“No,” I say, “not possible.” I shrug with feigned disinterest. I’ve never been good at bargaining, but I think I’m catching on.
“If you have US dollar, maybe two hundred dollar.”
“Maybe fifty dollars.”
“Not possible. Very old. Gold is true gold. Maybe one hundred dollar. That is best. You are from America. You can sell for many hundred dollar.”
I try to be tough. “I don’t want to sell. Final offer—seventy dollars.”
“OK. OK. Eighty dollar.” He sighs as if this is causing him excruciating pain.
I turn away, unzip the money pouch tucked inside my skirt, and pull out the appropriate bills. Yet even as he wraps it for me in cardboard and string, I know that I’ve probably first, overpaid, and second, overextended myself. I have months to go before my return flight home, and a continent to cross to catch it. I’d come within a millimeter of cancelling my entire trip due to cold feet, so at Jason’s suggestion I did something to insure myself against such future panic attacks. I booked my arriving flight in the south of India, in Madras, near the ashram, but my return flight—with an open date—from Kathmandu in Nepal, thousands of miles away. Jason did the same. That way, as he pointed out, we couldn’t turn around even if things got strange. Now that I’m on my own, with a long way to go, I have to be careful to make my money last. Still, I tell myself that beauty, that special kind of beauty that feels as if you alone have discovered it, is irresistible. This painting is something that will inspire me forever. The proprietor hands me the wrapped package, urges me to come back soon, then lowers his head over his accounting book.
Back in the courtyard, I squint in the glare of the sun on whitewashed walls. I wonder how long the fountain has been dry. I hold my package close to my heart, relishing the feel of the cardboard, the old string, knowing they protect the painting that will be companion on my journey. The curtain is now open again and the painter is still there. His back is still to me, the fingers of his left hand drumming, the fingers of his right hand poised over the tiny canvas. A column of dim light from a high window illuminates his enormous turban, which seems to be coming loose. As if he feels me staring, he turns toward me and meets my gaze.
His face does not match the aged look of his hands. In fact, he is young, his eyes are huge and calm, his skin smooth as water, his features finely drawn and sensual. He is almost pretty, except that his dark eyes are overshadowed by eyebrows that nearly meet, which gives him a kind of wild, intense look. I nearly turn away in embarrassment for being caught at staring. But then I hear myself say, “Look at this light you’re working in. You’ll ruin your eyes.” Immediately I feel ridiculous, like a schoolteacher. I have no idea if he understands me or not.
He frowns as if he’s puzzled. “My eyes see you very well,” he says.
What a strange thing to say. I feel myself blush. I reach for the sunglasses in my bag and put them on, just for something to do. “Well,” I say, “I’m
going to enjoy the painting I bought.”
“I may look?” he asks.
“Yes, of course.” I move to the curtained doorway, carefully take the painting out of its wrapping, and hold it up for him.
He tilts his head and puts his hand on his chin, as if he is thinking very hard about this painting. “Very good.” He pauses. “But also true.”
I consider this for a moment. So simple. “Yes, true.” I nod.
“The painting is very special. What is your name?” he asks.
“Elena,” I say, without thinking. That is my name, but my middle name, one I’ve never used before. And now I know what middle names are for—that other identity that is murmuring just beneath my skin.
I want to talk more to this intriguing young man but suddenly another presence invades the space of the courtyard. The proprietor. He has a stiff smile on his face as he puts himself between me and the painter. “Please, you come tomorrow and I show you very many more nice paintings.” I already understand the message. The young painter is his employee and has crossed a line by consorting with a customer. The proprietor takes the painting from me, wraps and ties it again, and hands it back to me as he walks me toward the main entrance.
I tuck the package back into my shoulder bag and secure the clasp. Just as I’m leaving, I look back over my shoulder to see the young painter watching me. I give him a quick, covert smile and shrug as I leave. I’m no longer the schoolteacher, but the student being reprimanded. In some way I’m now in league with him. In the street again, I can hear the proprietor’s voice, a mounting torrent of Hindi syllables. I cringe, because I know that the painter is in trouble because of me.
The sun is lower now, and the skinny cow is still there, still munching on his plastic bag, casting a long cow-shaped shadow on the cobblestones.
Back in the square, the crowd of revelers has turned into a densely packed throng. There is really no way around it, so I hold my bag close to my chest and plunge in. Immediately, I’m pushed from all directions by people whose eyes are bright with excitement. We’re all moving together like one enormous beast. Streams of colored powder are tossed into the air, suspended for an instant before they settle on skin, on hair, on clothes. The crowd thickens by the second. I pull in my shoulders and wriggle along as best I can. The sun is merciless on my bare head. I wish I’d worn my wide-brimmed hat. It would have provided me with an extra margin of space. Still, I tell myself, it’s no worse than a packed metro train during rush hour. Then it is worse. A trickle of sweat runs down my forehead, slips behind my dark glasses, and glides onto my nose. I dare not even lift my hand to wipe it off because I might not be able to get my hand down again. The air is heavy with pinkish dust. It’s hard to breathe.
Then, between bobbing heads in front of me, I see a dark sedan moving up the street, slowly, relentlessly. Like a steamliner plowing through an ocean, it’s forcing the crowd to part around it. From the other direction, a bicycle carrying three boys twists through the mob. They’re skinny teenagers in Western shirts and jeans, waving their arms in the air. The sedan and the bicycle are headed directly for each other. Of course, they’ll miss each other by millimeters. They always do.
But not this time. The car’s fender swipes the bicycle. The bicycle goes down. The boys sail up and into the crowd. There’s a communal roar of shock and anger. The boys flail around for just a moment, then scramble to their feet and chase the offending car.
The sedan is at a dead stop. The crowd sways and shouts, sways and shouts. I sway too, carried back and forth by the force of hundreds of bodies. Outraged men close in. They jump on the hood and roof, beat on the windows, pull on the doors. The driver, just visible behind tinted glass, pulls a scarf over his head. He doesn’t want anyone to recognize him. Then, just as someone starts banging on the car window with a stick, he guns the motor and brakes. The car jerks and a man falls off the hood. The driver keeps at it, braking and jerking. One by one, he shakes off his assailants until they’re all gone. He speeds off and the crowd surges forward, carrying me with it. Someone grabs at my camera strap. I twist it free. I keep my head down, hug my shoulder bag, and try to shove through the fray.
I have one thought: I’ve got to get out of here. When a flock of older women in saris passes by me, pushing through the crowd in a no-nonsense fashion, I see an opportunity. I smile tentatively at them and try to insert myself into their midst. At first they frown at me and close ranks. Then one, whose silver hair matches the silver border of her black sari, gives a little head bob in my direction and steps back to make room for me. “Thank you,” I say. I need to learn the Indian word for thank you. I need to know much more about this culture. In another block, we have escaped to a quieter street. I murmur a namaste to them when I leave their ranks. They smile at me, with a bit of pity—or do I only imagine it? It doesn’t matter. I’m free.
I make my way back the way I came. Everything is calmer now. Stragglers are on their way home, men with their arms around each other, women in wilted pairs. When I reach the medieval building with the tunnel that leads back to my guesthouse, I breathe a sigh of relief. I check for my camera, feel the comfortable weight of my old single-lens reflex. I pat the money pouch under my skirt. Everything is all right. But then something is not all right. The clasp to my bag is undone. My heart sinks even before I know what I’m missing. I thrust my hand into my bag, groping like I’m searching for a wound I can’t see. My map and brochures are there. My cosmetic bag is there. My wallet with my cards and identification is there, inside the zippered pocket. But my package with the painting is gone.
My painting is gone. My painting is gone. I search for it again and again in my bag, pat underneath my blouse and skirt as if somehow it could have slipped down there and lodged itself in my underwear. Be calm, I tell myself, but there’s a flush of panic spreading out to my skin. I force myself to remember my steps. I can see it so clearly, wrapped neatly in its cardboard and string. The proprietor wrapped it. I showed it to the artist. Then the proprietor wrapped it again. I tucked it securely in my bag and turned the clasp. I went from the shop to the crowd to here. That’s all. The shop to the crowd to here. The crowd. The moving sea of bodies. The grab at my camera strap. Of course. Someone opened my bag and took it. That’s what happened. I will never find it. Never. I retrace my steps, scanning the debris on the streets, cigarette butts, papers, powder packages, plastic bottles, food, all kinds of disgusting detritus. But not my package. It’s nowhere. There’s nothing to do but give up.
On my way back, I notice another smell among the aromas of spices and incense. Piss. When I finally pull open the heavy door of the guesthouse, the manager takes one look at me—disheveled, my clothes covered with streaks of powder, my hair a sweaty mess—and smiles his smug I-told-you-so smile. I ignore him. As I cross the courtyard, a pair of houseboys are pouring buckets of water over the floor. It sloshes over the stones and runs off into nowhere. The lone tree in the corner is wilting for a drink of water. But they ignore it. This is India, where they water the stones and let the trees die.
CHAPTER TWO
The Night Market
Back in my room, I take a shower to compose myself. My room is cell-like, with just a single bed, a chair, and a small dresser. A small window opens onto the lake. Back in San Francisco, all the things I owned and lived with formed so much of my identity. My city flat with its brick garden and fireplace. Elegant dishes and furniture and pictures and gorgeous oriental rugs. A huge closetful of clothes to choose from. Concerts and opera tickets and most of all (arrogant ex aside), wonderful and supportive friends. I had worked hard to have these things. They made me bigger than I was. They gave me comfort and order. Now there’s just me, a few garments and books, and no one to talk to. Not that I’m in a mood to talk to anyone.
Just chill, I tell myself as I change into a long black dress, appropriate for my mood, tie a purple sash around my waist, and head for the rooftop. I get there in time to catch the sun blazing its grand
finale over the distant hills. I have company. The silent German couple and the blonde, still hidden behind her enormous sunglasses. They all look so content, as if they have all the answers. In spite of the sense of destiny I felt on my arrival, I now have no idea what I’m doing here. I have a theory. I’ve entered a parallel universe where I haven’t yet figured out the rules.
The women are still washing clothes in the lake. Eventually, the thwack, thwack, thwack slows, then stops, and they call to each other and their children. I watch a man on a nearby roof shake out a length of white cloth and unfurl it like a sail that might carry him out over the lake. Even in my current state, I feel the pull of the sheer beauty of this place. The white city on the hills is melting into gold and then spreading a perfect reflection of itself on the lake’s glassy surface. A flock of birds, composed of hundreds of tiny V shapes, appears out of nowhere, swerves over the water, and then, by some trick of light, is gone. Seconds later it reappears, diving and spinning, as if emerging from an invisible time warp. The birds are so in tune with each other that they are one elegant creature. There is no leader, yet somehow they know the exact moment to turn so they will all be in unison.
No one, as far as I know, has ever seen a collision between birds. They undoubtedly have some kind of knowledge that the bumbling human race, superior as we think ourselves to be, has no clue about. We push, shove, and grasp, just like the people in the crowd where I lost my painting. My lost painting, my perfect painting. I can feel the weight of the brown paper package in my hands, like the ghost of an amputated limb. I can see it as if it were right in front of me. The shrouded figure sits before the fire. The tree’s painted leaves are the notes in some raga yet to be played. The reclining lion gazes tenderly at the onlooker.
