Meera the Maya
Rhoviyan was an abstract artist with a unique name — a tribute to Rothko fused with “Viyan.” Lately he could not paint. Working in the same genre had become an exercise in boredom. He refused commissioned work; to him it felt like a brutal murder of his creativity. He found some solace in amateur poems and occasional art criticism for a small magazine that published cover stories on the city’s exhibitions. Once there was an exhibition of realism by a well-known artist famous for female portraits. The paintings were hyper-real: a girl begging at a traffic signal, a sex worker sleeping half-naked from exhaustion, an acid-attack survivor, a gypsy with cat-eyed contact lenses. As Rhoviyan entered the gallery he saw people chatting, giggling, and arguing about art. Around fifty paintings hung in the grand hall: oils and acrylics. The aroma of hot cardamom tea drifted through the room; patrons wore polite ...
