DELHI FRAMES
Winter comes even during summers in Delhi. In pockets and pouches. One can sip hot coffee; drape a pashmina . Lutyen’s is as removed from sadar bazaar as clean air is from delhi. I am gazing at her , lost in the pink of her skin. She does’nt seem to notice in the fervour of explaining Hussain. That dishevelled, bare footed creator of coloured symphonies. Her eyes gradually assume a glassy sheen , travelling a distance in time , how she and her husband were pestered by the young Hussain to visit his two room apartment in south delhi and consider buying a piece or two. A modest ten thousand per piece. Still in his struggling days , not yet the comet that shone across the sky of international art scene. I nod in half attention distracted by my own thoughts. I am educated about some contemporary painters as well. Her manicured fingers run across some thatched roofs and cracked feet on the wall.
She goes on to tell me about the Guruji who saved her from slipping into a suicidal depression. After all a son walking out is not a common thing. A mother’s heart cannot take it; a father’s does’nt matter. She spends three to four hours in ardas daily. Sitting on the pedestal of her devotion and faith is a bald and obese grinning figure- The Guruji. Take away the kurta and he may pass off as a laughing Buddha. The grin eludes me. What evokes it ? The vulnerability of the non vulnerable or the talent to make the non vulnerable , vulnerable.
There are books- kept neatly arranged on the side table near my chair. I can’t help but notice the grin on most. Images of guests flipping those pages over coffee and sandwiches fill my mind. She is strangely at ease with me now. Even suggesting a match for me. I dismiss the suggestion with a giggle. The idea of me joining the Mercedes driving , Prada wearing and ardas doing ladies of the neighborhood amuses me. As I take a look at the paintings in the gallery , a slur accented English with a Punjabi garnish catches my ear. I walk back to the living room and am introduced . Mrs Arora is a neighbour and friend I am told . She has cropped hair and is burly. The convent education peeks at me every now and then as we talk. She has genuine affection for Mrs. Malhotra .It is such a pity that an old couple has to bear so much because of an ungrateful son. Such is the tragedy of this generation. I pretend to agree . Though being from the very generation that is being sized up, end up looking guilty. Mrs Arora meanwhile helps herself with a mathri and some tea. Relishing the snack ,b she goes on telling me about the tea estate her husband owns in darjelling. And how it’s the tea from their estate that is marketed by top brands as their own. Blame it to the competition. A sigh is stifled with a mouthful of mathri . The tea goes on to brew up some memories from her childhood . Her face changes and she looks up delighted. But I am in no mood to listen to her tales. I excuse myself and call it a day. Goodbyes are said to the lady of the house. I walk out of the sanitized interiors of the bunglow .
The juxtaposition is naked before me yet again. The skin and bones ; the dust and straw is frozen in golden frames in those drawing rooms . The street is Art for the privileged , the colours of which do not bleed beyond the golden frames.
