In the background was the soul stirring voice of Kumar Gandharva delineating each note of raga Hamir as though it was made of the rarest porcelain. In the foreground was Jatin Das, the renowned artist, with a glass of wine in his hand, his white beard askew, a beret perched on his head. The stage was my living room, with its ornate high ceilings and stately windows, and walls adorned by objects d’ arts from India. The time was a little after sunset, when the activities of the day were in pause and those of the night had not yet begun.
Jatin wanted to paint. He has spent the whole day doing so in a friend’s improvised studio. But the urge was not yet spent. He said he was tired, but the touch of paint and canvas had revived the twinkle—dulled after the long flight from Delhi—in his eyes. My wife arranged a rectangular white cloth, and this was stretched on the floor with my daughter and two of her friends holding the edges straight. Then, Jatin boldly drew a line in black ink across its centre. Soon the cacophony of lines congealed into an exquisite portrait of two ladies, their heads turned away from each other.
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