“No. No Piyali. Don’t see that…”

Mukundo was too late. She had impertinently uncovered the canvass. As he had anticipated, she was shocked. But only for a moment. Then she turned to him. Her face was red and there was a hint of nervousness in her countenance. But her voice was clear.

“It is the woman who had come with you the other day.”

“Yes,” now that she had already seen it, he decided to act the way he would have acted before anybody who was not expected to understand. Nonchalant. But when she continued to stand there, silent, and not giving any hint of how she felt, he grew concerned. He had this strange relationship with Piyali. She belonged to his world. At least a part of her. But for the rest, she had been brought up conservatively by her parents. Although rare, there were parts of his world that he hadn’t exposed her to. Because those would be blasphemy in her world and too scandalous. To top that, she adulated him. This exposure could be confusing, potentially traumatic for her. She was barely nineteen. “Look Piyali,” he decided to explain gently, like he explained Mathematics and History to her, “This is nothing bad… Drawing or painting a nude model is a common practice in art classes. It is nothing…” He stopped. He had meant to say ‘sexual’, but felt odd before her.

“Why her?” her question took him by surprise. His brows furrowed as he tried to think what exactly she wanted to find out.

“Well… there have been others,” he replied hoping to clarify that she wasn’t a lover.

“Why them?”

This girl would drive him crazy. What was she up to?

“They are…” he tried to think of an appropriate answer on the go, “They are my muses.”

“So am I.”

“Excuse me?”

“I am also your muse. You have done my paintings. Why not me?”

“What!” he was lost for words for a few seconds. “Run away, you stupid girl,” he finally managed to say, “And don’t talk like this before anybody else. They will think you are foolish and dep…” He stopped once again. He knew exactly what people would think of her if she talked like that. Deprave. But he couldn’t use that word before her.

He turned away from her pretending to pick up some book to read. He didn’t want to continue this conversation. He was acutely aware that he was acting like a parent trying to avoid an embarrassing question from a young child. But what could he do?

He was relieved as well as worried when he heard her stepping out of the room. Or was she running out? What did she think of his admonition? Damn! Did he not handle it right?

What should he have done? She had now grown up! Right before his eyes. And with every passing year, she had placed herself even more firmly in his life. She was the only one who came to this room. The room where he painted; and read; and wasted his time. Her mother, Debangi, believed that he did only the last of those. In the room and outside. Wasting his time. Because he could afford to. With his family wealth. She didn’t want Piyali to be spending any time with him. But that was one thing in which she defied her mother. She didn’t listen to her. She came there and sat with him for hours. Talking about everything under the sun.  Doing her homework. Looking at his paintings. Reading with him. Not bothered about his reputation. And hers for that matter.

When she was younger, she would innocently ask him about every objection made against his character.  “Do you drink too much, Mukundo Babu?” she had asked innocently once, “Everyone says it is not good.”

He had laughed, “Who says that?”

“Ma,” she had replied sheepishly. At that age all the opinions and information came to her from her mother only.

He had shaken his head trying to avoid talking further on that. But she had pressed on, “Why do you drink?”

“It gives me peace, and inspiration. To paint.”

“But it is bad, isn’t it?”

“It would be bad, if it made me a bad person. Am I one? A bad person?”

“No.”

“Then? What is the problem?”

She had not argued further then, but she had come back at a later occasion.

“I don’t like it Mukundo Babu. Ma says you are not a good person.”

“Tell her, Piyali, that I might be a bad person. But I will never let any harm come to you.”

“She is never convinced with that.”

“Then probably you should not come to me.”

“Why not? You don’t drink before me.”

Memories of yet another day crossed his mind.

“Why don’t you get married, Mukundo Babu?”

“And who is asking that, now?”

“Everybody.”

“I don’t want to get married.”

“Why not?”

“Why should I get married?”

“Ma says that if you got married, you won’t go to bad women.”

“Why would your Ma say such a thing to you?” he was perplexed. Her mother was the kind who believed in keeping the minds of their daughter ‘pure’. She wouldn’t be discussing that with her.

“Not to me. She was telling this to Promila Kaki.”

“Stop overhearing elders, and troubling yourself. Okay?”

“Are they wrong, then?”

He had sighed, “When you grow up, you can decide for yourself, Piyali. What can I say? But if you must decide now, you should probably listen to them.”

“Why do you always talk like that? You don’t like my coming to you?” she had been irritated.

“That’s not the case, Piyali. You know that very well,” he had said in conciliatory tone. And he was honest. She was the only creature in the world that made him feel good about things. In everything and everyone else, he saw either treachery, or cowardice.

As she grew up, she stopped asking those questions about his “bad” habits. Probably she had started understanding better. Her mother was more worried about her keeping his company. She was growing up into a beautiful woman. Her reputation was more at stake than it would have been in childhood. But she continued to defy her mother’s wishes of avoiding him and kept coming to him.

Grown up she had! He couldn’t ignore that. And it looked like that if she did ask a question now, it would be for herself. And increasingly answering them would be difficult; so would be ignoring them.

“I am also your muse. Why not me?” Her bold question rang in his head. He picked up his diary and started scribbling. That was one thing he did in this room, which even she didn’t know about. Writing his diary.

—

To be continued