A year or so ago, we were invited to a marriage ceremony at Brahmapur in South Kolkata. Due to a lack of space at the relative’s house, I was placed in a rented one-room flat at an apartment located fifteen-twenty minutes away by auto. Usually I stick out like a sore thumb in a crowded place, so this arrangement fitted me to a tee. It was around midnight that I made a move towards the flat.
No auto was available at that hour, so I decided to walk. The apartment was located in the interiors of a place called Pragati Maidan Park. When I turned a lane or two the light of our relative’s house was no longer visible. Everything became still and silent.
Since the advent of Metro Railways this area has attracted people to buy property and build houses here. Until a few years ago there were scores of trees all around and hardly any concrete houses. There are still swathes of ground covered with trees and most of the apartments (some in varied stages of construction) lie empty and uninhabited. The paths looping around the area remain dimly-lit at night and are swamped with shadows, thanks to the presence too-few light posts.
I had come to our relative’s house on a few earlier occasions and always liked walking in the evening all by myself with hardly anyone on the by-streets. Solitude-loving as I am, this Pragati Park Maidan always held some special interest for me. But I had no experience walking alone here past midnight. As I walked towards the flat, every little sound, the fall of a leaf, the call of crickets and sudden movements of unnamed creatures in the bushes and ponds startled me every now and then.
Then the sky suddenly growled, followed by a rush of wind in the trees. It started drizzling. I had no umbrella with me to protect myself from this unseasonal rain. I thought it would peter out, but it persisted. I was looking for a shelter when I sighted a lone thatched hut-like structure surrounded by a huddle of graceful date palm trees. With the help of my mobile torch, I briskly walked towards it. There was an awning over the front door under which I stood.
After a while I heard a creaking sound. I saw the door was slowly opening, but there was nobody standing there. By this time the intensity of the rain increased and I was getting drenched to the skin. Although I felt my scalp prickling, I entered the hut. As soon as I got in, I found the door slowly creaking shut. I soon realized the wind was making the door swing to and fro. It was partly unhinged and unbolted.
It was not completely dark inside. There was a glow the source of which I could not find. In two minds whether to remain there or to move out immediately under the leaking sky, where it would be difficult to find my way amidst the slush and whipping winds, I decided to stay put and have a view of the room’s interior with my mobile torch.
It was only one room shaped like a circle. Right in the middle, there was a chair and a small table on which lay a stack of art papers. I found no human presence; yet instinctively felt I was not alone. A canvas stood on an easel in a corner. It was a landscape. I moved towards it. It was a water colour, my favourite medium. There was a flotilla of boats beached on the shore, a ship far out, its sails aflutter with seagulls on the wing—a divine moment caught and stilled.
Then I found a portrait in another corner, of a gentleman. I thought the image resembled someone I had met before. I got closer to it. As I did so, something strange happened. The portrait started glowing with an otherworldly light, almost like the picture of Dorian Gray. Then the lips of the man in the portrait quivered and a voice sounded, as though it was coming from the depths of a deep hollow.
“Don’t be afraid”, he said. “This hut was my haunt where I’d dabble in art. I have been deceased for some time. I should have been by now in the bardo. But something still ties me up with the world. You can set my soul free if you please do what I ask you to.”
I knew there were instances of spirits embodying themselves. Now it’s happening right before my eyes, I thought. “Sure, if I can”, I said.
“Please go near the window on the left where you’ll find another portrait featuring a lady. Switch your torch off. As long as I remain here, there’ll be no dearth of light but my time is very limited.”
When I took the portrait in my hands, he said: “This portrait which you see is not modelled on any sitter. I never saw this lady anywhere before I drew the picture. She had actually appeared in my dream. I just nailed her image on the canvas as close to the dream as possible. Then in an exhibition along with other paintings—see the landscape?—I put it up for the show. The exhibition attracted quite a few visitors. One of them was you!”
Immediately, some memories came rushing back to me. I was then in the habit of touring the art galleries attending painting exhibitions. I recalled, in fact interviewed this painter, Mr. A!
“The interview you did with me brought quite a few other people to the subsequent shows. Then, one day at the Academy of Fine Arts, a lady came over when I was busy drawing a small painting and said: ‘The portrait of the lady right there is absolutely a spitting image of me. I don’t think I’ve ever met you before.’ I looked at her in astonishment. In a flash I realized the portrait was indeed her exact double. She said it’s her image and therefore she’s entitled to own a copy of it without having to pay any price. I was very hard up then. I flatly refused. She came a few more times to attend my other shows thankfully without any such demand, but just to spend a few quiet moments with me; and like ‘a lightning bolt that splits your bones’—as the novelist Julio Cortazar said—we were beginning to feel a certain chemistry working between us.
It was at this juncture Covid struck worldwide. Everything went awry as you know. We all got scattered and lost track of each other. Unfortunately we didn’t exchange our phone numbers. I then got infected with the virus and passed away within a week. I don’t think she has any idea till date where I had gone. But I think she is alive, otherwise I’d have known.”
It was past 3 am, the wee hours of the morning. I could hear the gentle pitter-patter of rain outside. I was wondering if it was real or a dream. I felt as if he was choking back tears. He kept quiet for a while.
“Now, would you please hand it over to the lady”, he asked. “Otherwise, I’d forever remain trapped here. Please release me from this worldly bondage.”
“But I don’t know her address.”
“She resides somewhere in a village in Jhargram, close to a famous temple there. She is a weaver and her name is Missie. It won’t be difficult to find her. Please also take the landscape painting. It’s for you as a token of appreciation. I owe it to you for all that you did for me. Your article on me was very perceptive.”
Then as an afterthought he continued: “We spirits can’t stay or move in a crowded place. We are designed to move only at night at places where people are not, like abandoned houses, huts or ruins.”
Then the glow on the portrait slowly faded and the spirit of the man disappeared along with the portrait itself leaving the canvas totally blank. The intermittent chirping of birds from outside floated in through the door I found open. The darkness had started thinning by then. I had a shopper bag with me. I put both the paintings inside it, and then got out of the hut.
The following week I got in touch with one of my friends in Jhargram who found the address and passed it on to me. On a certain Sunday I knocked on her door. Fortunately, she opened the door. I instantly recognized her, for the image of the portrait by then had deeply imprinted itself on my mind. “I guess you’re Missie”, I said. “Can I have a word with you?”
She got startled hearing a stranger saying her name and hesitated. Then I mentioned his name, the painter’s: “Do you know anybody named Mr. A, an artist?”
She invited me in. It was their drawing room, small, neatly organized. There were a few photographs of her hung on the wall. I took out the portrait, and without any preamble, gave it to her. I could see she was stunned. It left her speechless. She wanted to utter something, but words failed her.
Then I broke the news that Covid had taken his life, and before going to the hospital he’d entrusted me with this job, that it be given to her, otherwise, he’d told me he would not rest in peace. I didn’t tell her about what actually happened at Brahmapur, because I thought she would not have believed it. When I stopped talking, I found her eyes filled with warm tears. She turned her face away, her body heaving with paroxysms of grief …
Recently I paid another visit to Brahmapur and as usual was taking a walk to visit a temple not far from where I met the deceased painter. There was no sign of the hut anymore. It had been gobbled up by a high rise.