TROUVAILLE - the untold story of a Lassie

TROUVAILLE - the untold story of a Lassie

Every creator dreams to have a fan who appreciates, admires and criticizes his work. Most often you never get that lucky chance to have one such aficionado. There are people who applaud you in person, some are face book ‘like’ click addicts, some are silent followers and there are few who are sycophants. 

While I forage for an ardent fan…

The story goes like this …

The day was January 26^th 2017, an ordinary day except being a republic day; a government holiday.

 It was a hustle bustle high rise apartment in the concrete jungle of Chennai, her bedroom was a little-bitty universe decorated with wall decal , one such wall sticker was of a babyish  minion with a quote "I am not lazy I’m just on my energy saving mode".

Her bed was chaotic, there were Chetan Bhagat’s  'One Indian girl' and Paulo Coelho’s 'Brida' and few other books on  her bed. Brida was left half open with a doodle on the verso.

She was stupefied by sleep, her mobile alarm had snoozed umpteen numbers of times, and she never knew what awaits her.

Her mother cuddled her and offered the bed coffee as she was PMSing. She usually stays composed to avoid outbursts. She woke up walked to the main door to pick up the daily news paper.

She started yelling that the paper boy had delivered a wrong news paper, instead of 'The Hindu' she had received 'The new Indian express'. She isn’t a news addict, science and art columns are of her interest.

With vexation she leafed through the pages of the Indian express. The headlines read “ Unsung heroes adorn padma awards and Mallaya restrained trading insecurities markets”  these news sounded  mind-numbing to her. She was hunting for some feel good entertainment column in a news paper which was unfamiliar to her. She found the Chennai express to be engaging  when she flipped through the 4^th page  something grabbed her attention  there was a write-up by Gokul Nair titled “Broken bridge is a perfect hideout”.

It was about an artist with an uncommon name who was an autodidact whose primary interests were  abstracts  and semi abstracts which portrays feminism, misogyny, violence against women and the power of female form. He also happened to be a health care professional and a researcher. She felt that this artist was outlandish; she wanted to learn more about him.

She started feeling uncomfortable due to her menstrual cycle, she always wondered if menstruation was curse or boon for girls in a country such as India, she hated the impure status given to women by fanatics during periods, but these straying thoughts didn’t deter her from her objective of searching for the information about the artist who was alien to her. She googled the internet, she found nothing about the uncelebrated artist. Every attempt went in vain, porn site pop up ads were  maddening her, she felt like thrashing her laptop, after hours of disappointment she found a facebook link which led to the artist profile.

There was a surprise waiting for her it was a wow feel  for her, the anonymous artist was an Alma mater of the university were she was graduating, she never knew how to get more information about the artist …

Days rolled on, she gathered courage to send a friend request on his facebook profile, and the request was accepted.  The moment she saw the request accepted she felt like painting the town blue.

She became a stalking addict, it became  a daily ritual for her she indulged in it religiously, she started putting a tail on him to erase a  picture from her heart.

She knew each and every post of him on social network, she can recall the tagline verbatim with ease. Her lappy had a folder dedicated to save the downloaded pictures of the artist’s work posted in his profile, her personal favorite was charcoal paintings of the artist.

Somewhere during the end of 2017 on a busy day she was walking through the long corridor of her college, accidentally she saw the artist in her college, she was exhilarated and her heart started thumping. For a second she imprudently thought that the walk way became sanctum sanctorum.

She never had the courage to introduce herself and initiate a conversation.

..... Days passed.....

It is almost two years by now, the stalking still continued; the artist never knew that his profile was stalked ….

Now how do I conclude the story of this fictional aficionado?

Years back I did have an admirer  who enthusiastically commented and appreciated my work, I was not even know as an artist then, all my  novice works  were lying dead in my personal space. Some works were even resting underneath my cot. There were none to celebrate and appreciate a self taught artist.

 Almost sixteen year later, now I have an ardent fan who follows my works, applauds it and celebrates it.

After close following on facebook for considerable time she wished him on his birthday …. She just received ‘Thank you’ as a reply. She did not possess the guts to proceed the conversation fearing that he would snub her. She was heartbroken at times, but she was hopeful that she would  get a chance to talk to him in person and at least take a selfie with him some day.

Everything was like a lucid dream, like Sylvia Plath’s quotes, 'I shut my eyes and all world drop dead, I lift my eyes and all is born again' ; when she lifted her eyes the world was new and strange to her, she had already befriended the artist ..

It was Sunday morning; she was going to meet the artist for the first time. She was nervous, timorous, she felt that she would faint, she didn't know how to react and she has never felt this before. Her heart was fluttering, she could feel her blood gushing through her arteries, her palms were sweating and tremorous.

She had requested him to write a letter for her then, which she would keep it as a souvenir.

He was already waiting in the coffee shop, he was dressed in a black t-shirt which read 'Science it works bitches!'  and a faded denim jeans, he wore a pair of glasses which transformed his look , she saw him poring  a book by Frank Kafka. Kafka wasn’t an unfamiliar name to her, her grandmother had narrated the story of metamorphosis when she was in high school, for a second she thought the artist must be Kafkaesque, she smiled to herself .

She said, "Hi sir"…."Hey hello...How are you?",said the artist with a congenial smile." What do you like to have ?", asked the artist. "Anything sir, your choice", she replied.

Hot regular cappuccino was served on the table, though she preferred espresso shots she didn’t mind. The aroma of the roasted coffee bean filled the air conditioned  coffee house.

Philcollin’s "Another day in paradise" was playing sub audibly…..

Their conversation continued, they spoke about art, science, books and common interests.  An hour had already passed , she felt she was in a state of suspended animation,  she was expecting him to give the letter she requested , she wasn’t comfortable either to ask for it , but her heart was really begging for him to give it.

His mobile rang, he had an old classical song as his ringtone, she expected something better. He spoke to someone, his loud voice disrupted the ambience, she was admiring his care a damn attitude, she wished he could be her mentor.

Okay then, nice meeting you, we will catch-up sometime later he said … she was about to shatter she didn't get what she wanted. There was a pause she felt she was in the verge of crying..

She felt he was cantankerous, she cursed him. He walked out of the coffee shop without looking back..

She sat still for a while, her expectation was breaking into pieces, suddenly she saw him striding towards her … I am sorry he said in a persuasive tone,  I forgot to give this …

He pulled a handmade paper folded like an origami from the book which he was carrying. Oops he must be an Akira yoshizawa’ s admirer she felt.  She caressed the texture of handmade paper she did not know what’s written inside, all the more she just wanted an autograph but she now possessed the letter exclusively written for her

The letter read ,

I have been empty headed not knowing that someone was stalking me incognito. When you revealed me that it was you I was inarticulate, it was an animated silence.

After days of honeyed conversation, you asked me to pen down a personal letter to you in an old fashioned style which you would admire, to be truthful my paraphernalia refuses to move. I am devoid of words that would galvanize your thoughts.

This letter would most certainly be plain vanilla in the midst of modern day pandemonium of digital conversation. My letter might lack connotations and puns. It may not be  nearly as Da Vinci's Salvator Mundi or Shakespeare's Hamlet. It might lack metaphor, it may not even be magniloquent.

I just want to make it simple, Life is just a cosmic blink; and for me more than a decade was modicum of time, which was protracted with ho-hum and humdrum events.

I struggle to conclude, I am unsure how to sign off, I rather complete it with an ellipsis instead of full stop…

I have just written one line to summarize my thoughts

“You came as an petrichor on desert to celebrate my creativity “

As usual that line sounded cryptic to her like his painting.

Before she finished reading he vanished into the crowd, she wished to see him one more time...

Kafka’s quote came to her mind …"I miss you deeply, unfathomably, senselessly, terribly…."