The story of a struggling artist
Sekar cursed the gods as the strap of his bag tore open, spilling several of his paintbrushes onto the pavement. He checked his watch, it was two minutes to eight. He had to catch the bus to the city to report to his boss on time for the house-painting job. Even a few minutes late, and the company’s policy would cut half of his daily wages. It was illegal to do so but nobody dared to speak up.
Quickly gathering his brushes, he stuffed them into the bag and sprinted towards the bus terminus. Just as he neared the entrance, he saw his bus pulling away. Shouting at the driver desperately to stop was pointless amidst the noise. Running at full throttle, Sekar chased the bus, his bag bouncing against his back.
The bus slowed down at the corner as Sekar ran the last few yards. The back door was still open. He was about to leap onto the moving bus when…
Before we find out if he boarded the bus, we need a quick backstory.
Sekar was born into a poor family in a small Indian village. His father worked in a local factory, earning daily wages, and couldn’t afford to send Sekar to school. But Sekar had a natural talent for sketching. With broken pieces of coal, he drew on the cement floors of their tiny house, often sketching portraits of people from memory. His dream was to become a world-renowned artist but he had no idea how to achieve it.
As he grew older, Sekar realized his sketches wouldn’t put food on the table. He became a daily wage painter for contractors. By then, he was married with a son he loved. His wife, Meena, supported his dreams but was often overwhelmed by their financial struggles. Life was tough. His earnings barely covered the family’s needs, let alone his son’s school fees. The school principal had warned that one more default would result in his son’s expulsion.
Sekar had saved meticulously for this last payment but was still short by a thousand rupees. Today’s wages would make up the difference. Missing the bus would mean arriving late, losing half his pay, and failing to meet the deadline for the fees.
Going back to the present…
…Sekar was about to leap onto the bus when he tripped over a stone and fell hard onto the pavement. By the time he stood up, the bus had disappeared around the corner.
Limping back to the bus terminus, he cursed his luck and begged the gods for mercy. Near the terminus, he noticed a man boarding a white van. The man carried a bag similar to Sekar’s, filled with paintbrushes. Curious, Sekar approached the van and overheard an argument.
“What do you mean the guy can’t come? I paid you for thirteen painters, and now you’re sending only ten?” said a man in white, adorned with gold chains and a flashy watch.
Sekar realized the man was from the film industry. A large movie set had recently been erected in a nearby village. The painters were headed there for set design work.
The man noticed Sekar. “Who the hell are you?” he barked.
“Sir, I’m a painter. Can I join your crew? I can sketch really well,” Sekar replied, pulling out his sketchbook.
The man skimmed through the sketches. Though not an art expert, he could see Sekar had talent. With the director arriving the next day, extra hands were welcome.
“Fine,” the man said. “I’ll pay you only a thousand bucks for the day. Take it or leave it.”
Sekar eagerly agreed and climbed into the van with a dozen other painters. They drove to the massive set, which recreated a 1990s avenue. Sekar learned the film’s story revolved around a communist rebel who had led protests for government reforms. Sekar was assigned to paint the protagonist’s house in cream and red.
By evening, Sekar and his partner had finished painting the house. The production assistant inspected their work and noticed a blank wall. “This is the main character’s house,” he said. “It needs something special. Can you sketch something eye-catching and frame it? You have one hour.”
Sekar’s thoughts drifted to his childhood. He recalled attending a communist trade union meeting at his father’s factory, where a portrait of a white-bearded man hung prominently. Though he didn’t remember the man’s name, his face was etched in Sekar’s memory.
He quickly sketched the portrait on a canvas, framed it, and hung it on the wall. The production assistant returned and asked, “Who is this?”
“I don’t know,” Sekar admitted. “But I think it fits.”
Before the assistant could remove it, the director arrived unexpectedly. He inspected the set and stopped at the portrait. “Who put this here?” he demanded.
“Sorry sir, it’s the new painter. I will get that removed immediately,” blurted the production assistant.
“No, this is perfect. In my story, the hero is an ardent follower of Karl Marx. How the hell did you know that?”
Sekar was stunned as he just learned that the guy’s name was Karl Marx. “I’m a big fan of his,” he lied.
The director pulled out his wallet and handed two thousand rupees to Sekar. “The shooting commences tomorrow morning. Before then, I want you to fill the house with as many such portraits as you can. My assistant here will help you with pictures of various other communist leaders.”
Sekar’s face lit up with excitement. He and the assistant worked tirelessly through the night, sketching and framing portraits of Che Guevara, Lenin, and other iconic figures.
The next morning, the director returned to inspect the house. His eyes sparkled with delight as he surveyed the walls filled with vibrant portraits. “Brilliant work!” he exclaimed, patting Sekar on the shoulder.
He handed Sekar another five hundred rupees as a token of appreciation. “From now on, you’ll be part of every film I work on,” he assured him.
This was the turning point Sekar had prayed for.
Dear reader, I believe you would have guessed by now what would happen next. Sekar paid his son’s school fees, continued working in the film industry, and eventually went on to become a renowned set designer. Fame and wealth followed, but so did ego and alcoholism. His wife distanced herself from him, and his son ended up a drug addict. Twenty years later, Sekar’s excessive drinking habit finally took his life as he died alone, surrounded by no one.
But what if his bag hadn’t torn that day? What if he had caught the bus, earned his thousand rupees, and paid the school fees? Perhaps he would have remained a house painter for life, watching his son grow into a successful lawyer. Meena would have stood by him, and he might have died poor but surrounded by his loving family.
Perhaps…
Life is like a blank canvas, and the choices we make add colour to it, one stroke at a time. — Author’s quote