N Shiva Guru

Death of an artist Aravind’s untimely demise cast an ugly, crimson shadow on my art gallery’s future. It was a classic bar fight: he threw a punch; I slugged him, a tad too close to the neck. His drunken body slumped to the floor with a plop. There was dead silence for some time, enough for me to panic, grow sweat beads all over my body and take flight. Not surprisingly, pretty soon after the incident, the studio shut down. Or at least, that’s what I heard. But for my parents no one knew where I was at. That’s the thing about being the only son: when you commit a felony, you don’t have a trail of bread crumbs leading the cops to the motel you’re holed in. But, the art critic in me wouldn’t leave me alone. Between the secret calls with my parents from unknown numbers and a panic stricken existence, the imminent break out of an existential crisis was inevitable. So, I set up a small art shop in drugged, dazed and lazily beautiful Kasoli. How did I cough up the dough? My old man’s loaded! A dot com millionaire (in USD, not INR) who now invests in start-ups, that’s my dad for you. Murthy Swaminathan, who just got richer by a few million dollars thanks to Parivardhan Logistics’ IPO last week. His Blog ‘Nathan’s Upper Crest’, where he writes about his investment strategies and the elaborate details of vacations he takes with his fellow millionaires, sees a million hits every month. He is invited to Fortnightly debates and interviews on news channels. A bald man with a salt and pepper goatee, fit as a fiddle. Don’t mistake the look behind his glasses for kindness; it’s unrelenting stubbornness wearing the mask of affection. I have to tell you that suspense and murder were not in any way new to my family. Take my granddad Swaminathan Iyer, there’s an infamous story of him and his business partner, Eshan that did the rounds in the 60s. This incident occurred on a particular evening when the business men owning flourishing textile mills met for Eshan’s wedding at their favourite club in Ooty. Around six that evening, when the doorbell rang, Eshan was busy getting things ready for the evening's party. Wondering who had turned up so early, he grumpily went to the door. It was Nathan. "I'm here to help you," he said with a smile. "How much can you possibly do all by yourself." Holding forward a single rose that had a long, slender stalk, he bowed dramatically. "Congratulations. For now, you could stop being jealous," he sneered. Eshan knew that the emphatic 'all by yourself' was hardly intentional, but it bothered him. That evening, Eshan disappeared. And less than a month later, my granddad was married to Madhurima, one of the most enchanting beauties of Mangalore. So, the apple didn’t fall far from the tree after all, eh? It’s been a month and a half now since the incident now. Strangely, neither my parents nor I brought it up. But, I had to ask! I kept it as casual as possible but asked if my dad bought off the cops. He laughed inscrutably, going ‘They never came! As for the guy’s house, they had a quiet funeral. There was an obituary sometime back and that was it.’ This was oddly unsettling. Aravind had worked with our gallery as an artist for five years now and I had never bothered to know if he was rich or poor. So, I didn’t know whether they were rich enough to file a case and fight against my dad’s lawyers. Were they afraid because my dad was a big shot? Did they just put it behind them and moved on? It’s anybody’s guess! I tried to wrap my head around the affair that evening when I was sharing a joint and my bed with a Russian blonde I had met at the hookah bar but I decided her lips were too lusciously delightful to have this grim incident weigh on my mind. The next morning, I received a call from my caretaker. Nervously, I dialed his number. ‘Hello, Pranab da?’I said. ‘Swathish! There is someone here to meet you. And he says it’s a matter of life and death!’ My balls were in my mouth. I got off the bed, put on my clothes, got cussed at in Russian before muttering, ‘Sorry, I’ll call you!’ with the cigarette in my mouth and hailed a cab. When I reached my apartment, I met a stranger I had never seen before in my life. ‘Sir!’ he said, in his unmistakable French accent, ‘Here’s the painting I told you about!’ he said, handing me a few paintings to look at. I was at a loss for words. Then I shook myself off the hangover and blurted, ‘I’m sorry, what?!’ He responded with surprise, ‘You met me at the bar the other day and you spoke about opening a gallery. I showed you pictures of my paintings and you said you’d love to have them in the gallery. You even paid me an advance of two thousand rupees. I thought you were some crazy, eccentric millionaire!’ he finished. ‘Oh, that I am!’ I said, lighting up a cigarette and coughing through my smile. ‘Give me half an hour. Would you like a beer? Perhaps something stronger?’ I asked. ‘Tea would be nice!’ he said. I considered him peculiarly before barking, ‘Pranab da! Can you please make my friend some chai?’ and headed into the bathroom. I came back fresh, feeling like work. Boy had I missed this. I stuffed a paratha Pranab had made for me and half way into a bite, I started checking out the “pieces of art”. They were drab, bland and devoid of originality. I could have puked on them and they would have been no worse for it. ‘How baked was i? I paid two thousand rupees for this?’ I thought to myself. The Swathish from a couple of months ago would have kicked the guy in the nuts, grabbed him by the hair, dragged him on the road for everyone to see and if the shame didn’t kill him, the words that followed surely would have. Then, he would have come back in and fired the new me. I picked the best of the bad lot, paid him two thousand more and sent him off. ‘I could bring more!’ he said. The old me would have sucker punched his gut and disemboweled him, throwing his remains to Paris or whichever French hole he crawled out of. Seriously, a country full of artists and you send a retarded shithead to do your bidding? Why, to brandish your name in the east? Or is this some cruel French lost in translation? Back to being jobless again, I was itching to call the Russian blonde again. ‘No!’ I told myself. Too much slack already, I could not afford more frolicking. That’s when the gift arrived, wrapped in cellophane. It was oil on canvas, a horse on a ship with wings. The crew was all facing one way and holding a rope, it almost felt like they were water skiing. The horse was pale grey and the mane seemed to shine, like silver. I was amazed by the beauty of it. There was a note. ‘Thanks for passing the test’ it read. In the weeks after that, I got two more paintings. Of course, I had to find out the source. So, I hired an Israeli ex con (you’d be surprised at how many there are in Kasoli, for real!) At first, I sheepishly hoped that it was the French guy who was sending me his ‘real’ stuff because I had proved my integrity by buying his piece-of-shit painting. Then I started panicking that it was someone playing a diabolical game to set me up and arrest me. How, I did not know, but I was sure there was a conspiracy. That’s where James Morril helped. When I knew who was sending me the paintings, I was mortified with anger. My dad was meddling with my business again. He had done it once before which ended with me, dad and mom visiting the shrink as a group and then separately. The art gallery was the consolation prize for being depressed. I had half the heart to tear up all the paintings but thankfully, sanity prevailed. I told myself I’d track down the artist and return the paintings. ‘Maddening, isn’t it,’ said a familiar voice. ‘When a rich prick gets involved and spoils your dreams!’ ‘I knew you weren’t dead!’ I responded, matter-of-factly. ‘Why go through an elaborate show to make folks think you were, though?’ He shrugged. ‘I initially wanted retribution. But I know your father would stop at nothing to clear your name.’ ‘Perhaps he should stop helping!’ I said bitterly. ‘SO!’ he continued loudly, overriding my interruption, ‘ I channeled my fury into art. ‘Post Mortem Impressionist Paintings’ I call them.’ He grinned. ‘Gosh, you were bad at puns then and are bad at them now, Air-Wind!’ ‘The deal with your father, why are you surprised anymore? Wasn’t he like this since your days of being a struggling artist?’ I looked at him in surprise. None of my colleagues knew about my spurned love for the brush and canvas. Then I figured out. ‘You spoke to Aparna, of course!’ I smirked. ‘Yes’ he replied coolly. ‘I wanted to understand why you were such a punishing, foul mouthed, incorrigible asshole that you are. My empathy replaced my loathing. She still loves you, you know? I would think that you are undeserving but I am no one to judge!’ I scoffed. ‘She is condescending and she is unbelievably full of herself!’ I sighed. ‘But then, she is the only woman in the world who would consider a life with me.’ ‘She’s changed, you’d do well with her.’ said my former colleague, resignedly. I threw him a scornful look, going, ‘Taking advice from a dead man, that’s what my life has come to, is it?’ ‘Enough of dork jokes, my good friend. Here’s the money your father paid, for the paintings. I sold it under an alias. I got one of my friends who’s folks are part of ‘Nathan’s Upper Crest’. Go get yourself a nice hooker!’ he chuckled. I shook my head and asked, ‘What was the alias you took up?’ ‘Aditya!’ he exclaimed. I smiled and nodded. ‘You still have to pay me for the paintings;’ he continued ‘Once they are sold of course. No rich man’s life for me yet!’ he completed. ‘Right!’ I noted. ‘One more thing,’ he said, suddenly remembering. ‘Why weren’t you reluctant initially? Aparna told me you sought out his help first. Why didn’t you push hard enough?’ ‘I was worried that financial anxiety might bury the artist in me. Ironically, that artist died from the overwhelming burden of wealth.’ ‘Adios’ guffawed Aravind. ‘Arrividerci’ I chortled.