His teacher’s face ever so slightly lit up as the diligent student sat besides him, stumped. Premchand ji had told him to make a promise. Promise that he would never give up on his passion, his destiny. That he would always keep on playing with colours with his every breath and live through them. Giving it up would mean giving up on himself.
When Ramlal’s father forbid him from pursuing his dreams at seventeen, he had melancholily stormed outside and found himself sitting by his late teacher’s house, which was by now covered in a layer of dust, forgotten and left to its ruins. Premchand ji’s words ringed hard in his mind…. ‘Giving up on it would mean giving up on yourself” …
“Giving up on myself….” Ramlal said to himself.
Isn’t that what he was doing all this while? Wasting away at an office, lost in a crowd, pressured and cutting himself in a particular shape so that he could fit in like the rest of them…He had spent most of his life giving up.
The bus came to halt and the conductor, who knew Ramlal as a regular, called out to him, “Ramlal Bhai! Aaj ghar nahi jaana? Don’t you want to go home? Your stop has come.”
Ramlal dragged himself from his troublesome thoughts and scampered off the bus. His head was faintly aching. This had become the norm. Two months ago, his Amma passed away and ever since then, his thoughts prodded back at him every chance they got.
Ramlal’s Father had also met a sudden death due to a stroke, a year ago. And now, Amma. Amma was already suffering from a severe medical condition, and most of the family’s earnings has to be invested in it. Ramlal had no time to think of anything for himself. No time and money to put into canvases and colours. At least that’s what he told himself. So even after his Father had passed away, his earnings were spent on Amma’s medicines.
But now Amma was no more. He could save up and buy canvases. Maybe he could start all over again. But he could have saved and started painting years ago, couldn’t he? He could if he really wanted to, but he didn’t. At seventeen, he had stopped, completely stopped everything. He did exactly what his Father wanted him to do and abandoned his passion. More so, he believed his father when he said that his paintings were a waste of time. Over the time, this belief grew like a virus, it had been hammered into his mind.
“Colouring? Sketching? What’s the big deal there…it’s just a phase beta, you think you will become some great person, but in reality, all you need is money to be happy.” One relative said.
“Even my eight-year-old son is a good singer. Does not mean he’s going to become the next Mohamad Rafi.” Said another uncle.
And so, he had managed to cripple his talent; his conscience suppressed heart wrenchingly by his own people.
He wanted a way out. He was searching for a vent and had finally found it, and since then his thoughts were eating him up even more ferociously. And he knew it was his last chance to salvage himself. If he didn’t do anything now, it would mean putting the last nail in the coffin. He came across his teacher’s house on the way home. It was more ruinous than it had been before.
“It would mean giving up on yourself…” He heard those words stabbing his conscience. It would mean giving up on all the blank canvases waiting for him…his canvas. There and then, something snapped inside him. (to be continued next week)
