ff: ''a many splendoured thing', update pg. 102 - Page 71

for someone who had death take away so much from her life, perhaps it was apt that she understood her place in life from someone who was ready to die.

once she was ''adopted'', things had become an increasingly nerve-wracking for heer. jean-pierre constantly had colleagues visit him, experts in their field. and jean-pierre's little gang would have the tremendous privelege and the nerve-wracking pressure of being scrutinised by them. there had been a master of oil paints, who had been visiting from paris after finishing a showing of his paintings. he had been as loudly opinionated as jean-pierre. to heer, it had been as if she had the pressure of two jean-pierres -- as if one had not been bad enough for a girl who had a natural aversion to pressure of any sort.

she had been painting her little paintings much more frequently. the local postoffice had probably made a tidy profit just on the number of packages doing the cross-atlantic route to her personal demon. she had refused to let herself think about how keeping him out of her head during the day was nearly impossible. she had been in complete denial about trying to keep him out of her head at nights.

one evening that things had became too much, she had walked rapidly out of her flat, just wanting some respite with no idea that she was going to land up at the little side gate of the university hospital nearby. the night watchman had recognised her from previous visits and let her through.

the hospice welcomed any volunteer who would sit with the patients at night. they had learnt that pain was easier to bear when there was a warm hand to hold yours.

when she had seen heer walk through the door, the night nurse had gladly siezed her arm, pushing her into one of the rooms, as she had whispered, ''she needs to rest. but she is taking time to adjust to the new medication. distract her. try to get her to sleep.''

in the dim light by the bedside, heer saw the patient was a young girl, an indian girl. she was thin and pale, her head bleached bald, the knuckles of her interwoven fingers shining almost as white in the light -- a characteristic sign of someone undergoing chemotherapy. but what struck heer the most was the big dark eyes where curiosity shone as she had caught sight of heer.

they had sized each other up for a long moment, heer starkly draped in black, the girl wrapped in sterile white.

''you're not a nurse.'' her voice was matter-of-fact.

''you are carrying a portfolio bag. yet you are not a model.'' the girl in the bed had tilted her head slightly.

''you are a painter. hmmm. an artist in a hospice.''

she had paused. ''to paint dying people?''

her brows had gone up comically. ''well, either that's macabre or that just makes no sense.''

heer had to laugh; talk about being firmly logical. ''no more or no less than finding someone as young as you in a chemo-ward.'' heer said gently.

''apparently no one told cancer that age was a factor to be considered before attacking.'' the voice had started wry, but turned apologetic. ''sorry. but it is not that unusual, you know.''

heer had waved away the apology. ''it is unusual enough among the people i've seen here. you came in recently?''

they had started an easy conversation. she was an indian, but she too lived across the atlantic, although on the sunnier side of the country. her name was vani, and she was a musician. she had been learning indian classical music for what seemed to be for her entire life. she also painted, watercolours. but that was not her passion. her brush was her veena, with which she painted her notes of music on a canvas of silence. she had been envious of heer's last three months at the school. she had been bed-ridden since she was ten, school had always meant tutors within the walls of her own home.

they had bickered about the east coast vs. the west. vani had been amazed to find that heer had never been to india. in her opinion, heer would have committed an unforgiveable sin if she never painted india at least once in her life.

they had been chatting so merrily that it had been a shock when the nurse with the medication adjustment. heer had watched as vani's face distorted when the needle in her arm moved slightly as the nurse switched the hanging bags.

''life can be so unfair,'' she said suddenly.

vani had been trying to get her breathing under control. ''why do you say so? oh. you mean, 'cause i'm here? i'm too young, etc?''

''well, it could've been worse, you know.'' the girlish voice was wrapped over an ancient soul. ''i could have been a really poor person and screaming my head out as the cancer ate up my bones.''

she had smiled painfully. ''instead, here i am, being treated by the foremost experts in the world, tanked to the hilt with morphine so i don't feel the pain, all while being surrounded by fields of lavendar. oh i know.'' she had said as she saw heer moving to correct her. ''they are mostly harvested. it's better in june. but the air smells so beautiful. it smells like when amma's making her lavendar cookies.''

heer had stared at her, watching her large black eyes grow soft as her memories wiped out the harsh edges of pain.

suddenly, those eyes turned towards her, ''heer, the painter. maybe it does make sense to have an artist among dying people after all.''

her thin face had been pensive. ''i've always hated cameras. they are so.. instantaneous, almost rude. once taken, the picture does not change. all beauty, all flaws, immediate gratification. so i've always refused to allow them to take a picture. and,'' her voice had dipped low, ''i've always made amma miserable. 'cause she has always wanted my picture for our family wall back home. it's quite an amazing collection. she actually worked to get it back to hand sketches and sepia prints of five generations ago. so far... so far, i am the only missing person in that family picture tree.''

she had sighed. ''maybe i have just been hopelessly hopeful, refusing to get my pictures taken, waiting to get better, to look better, to give amma something nicer to remember. now it looks like so much hopefulness was a luxury i could not really afford.''

vani's lips had twisted wryly. ''oh, i know amma will never admit wanting one of me as i am today. she will smile and say that she will always remember me. that she could never forget me. and one day, when the pain of losing me grows less, she will take out one of those standard baby pictures that is a dirty secret in everyone's past, and paste it in our family wall. and suddenly, that is not quite the memory i want to leave behind.''

vani had turned her head to look at heer. ''i still hate the idea of facing a camera, though.'' she said speculatively.

heer was suddenly, uncomfortably aware of where she was headed.

''would you paint me, heer?''

heer had sat, mute, desperate. not me, i can't do this. i'm a mess. this might be the last picture of her ever. i will mess it up.

in the silence, vani's eyes had shone mischievously, as she said with comic dismay. ''oh dear, i've put my foot in it, haven't i? i should've asked your credentials first, no? you are one of those hopeless cases, aren't you? one of those people that even this school hasn't been able to teach how to paint?''

heer had laughed spontaneously. that was twice more than she had laughed since she had left prem. ''no, not i am not as bad as that. i have been told i am not bad. if you want some credentials, i can refer you to the galleries on the west coast that have shown some of my work. although, that was before....,'' heer had choked on the words.

vani had been watching her curiously, so heer had continued slowly because she felt she had owed it to this dying girl with whom she had formed a curiously strong bond, in such a short time. ''before i lost my family. my father, my mother and my little sister.''

her eyes had been turned away from vani, as she continued. ''they died in one of those random car crashes that happen to so many people. and when they left, it was like they had taken away my ability to paint with them.''

there had been a pool of silence.

vani had said, ''i'm sorry, heer. for someone who have grown up with a diplomat for a father, i have learnt none of his grace. that must've been awful, losing everything like that.''

heer had sat as still as a statue.

vani's voice had been worried, as she continued. ''look heer, i am really very sorry. i didn't mean it. forget i ask..'' when heer had looked her in the eyes, and said firmly.

''it would be my honour to paint you, vani. i only hope i will be able to do you justice.''

and so on that strange night, which she had started with unbearable anxiety, heer painted the most honest and awe-inspiring portrait that she ever would. in her mind, there was no space for her own confusions and self-doubts. they had vanished like the mists at dawn in the face of that bright spirit that burned in vani's dark eyes, despite the crushing inevitability of death.

she had left vani to admire the art paper sketch in charcoal, while she went to bring back to her room to lug back the frame of canvas and the familiar gold green box of her paints. she painted all through the night, standing hunched over the makeshift ''easel'' that she had set up using the back of a chair propped up against the foot of vani's bed.

at first, vani had chattered, full of questions about what heer was trying. those had, in turn, led to helpful suggestions for heer to try. heer had learnt quickly that she could filter some of vani's more cheeky suggestions with a simple long ''hmmm''.

in any case, the girl's energy had been waning. after a while, her eyelids had drooped, and she fallen into a quiet and deep sleep. the nurse had looked approvingly at heer when she had poked her head in.

heer had not paid heed.

she had been painting again. the way she used to, with all her heart, mind and soul focussed on one rectangular sheet of canvas. there had not been a thought in her mind, outside of what was driving her fingers to instinctively dab the brush from one paint to another, and then onto the canvas. her entire being was unfettered and synchronised. if vani had been awake, she would have said that she could practically hear the air around her vibrating like the air around a well-strung instrument.

and the song heer made was perfect.

at the end of four hours of intense focus, heer had stood looking at the painting she had created with wide, staring eyes -- as if it had been created by someone else. after a long while, she had leaned forward slowly, her body shaking but her hand rock-steady, to put the final touches on the painting as the weak rays of the autumn sun started streaming in through the shutters of the windows.

heer had not disturbed vani when she left. she had known it would please her.

thanks to her extremely strict gaurdian/mentor, heer had not been able to return to the hospice until a few weeks later, when the nurse had told her that vani had checked out of the hospice. she was the one who told heer what had happened after.

soon after heer had left that night, vani's parents had returned from their long overnight trip to the university in the north, bone tired and soul weary. the news had not been good. their last hope had come to naught.

when they had walked quietly into their daughter's room, they had been intrigued by the strange arrangement at the foot of their daughter's bed. while her mother had gone to check on her peacefully sleeping daughter, vani's father had checked the canvas.

her mother had been smiling to see how deeply her daughter slept, such a rare thing these days. the nurse had been struck at how similar the smile of the mother was to that of the daughter.

as she had watched vani's mother look back at her husband, the nurse saw her face change. she had looked back at the father. he was still standing over the canvas, and he had an arrested look on his face. the women had joined him to see that it was a portrait of just vani's face covering the entire canvas.

her mother had gasped -- the portrait had vani laughing, open and carefree. her lips were stretched over teeth that were pearly white even today, her hollow cheeks bunched up, her face tilted back. but not even the fact that her eyes were crinkled at the sides could reduce the light and sparkle in those dark eyes. it was as if there was a fire inside her that shone through the canvas, spilt out over the edges and enveloped them in a warm glow.

her mother had involuntarily reached out to touch her daughter's cheek -- in the painting. but her father had stopped that involuntary movement. ''the paint is still fresh.''

instead of dropping her hand, he had lifted it to his lips to place a soft kiss on her palm. and he had said with wonder, ''she looks so much like you.'' the tall gaunt man had gathered his small wife into his arms to hold her close as she sobbed silently against his chest.

the tears spilling from his own eyes had made it difficult to read the name of the artist easily. so he had leaned in closer to read it out aloud:

''prem''