“Ladies and Gentleman. A big hand for the man who has a unique combination of achievements to his credit – a successful businessman, recently revealed to be the gifted artist the world had known only with a pseudonym till now, and a most generous philanthropist. In honoring him today, we are honoring ourselves!”

Mukundo walked to the stage amidst loud applause. His gait was not as powerful and straight as it used to be thirty years ago. Despite having adopted a very healthy lifestyle, as he had promised Piyali, the age had finally caught up with him.

“Good evening everyone,” Mukundo started his speech with a formal greeting, “The reason I accepted the invitation to this ceremony is so that I can counter the allegations made against me in the introduction right now.” This drew a chuckle from the audience. “The reality is that my life was well on its way of being wasted. I was a self-destructive person and did everything that made even the people who had known me from childhood, shrink away from me. I was too disillusioned and angry with life, with people, with their treacheries. Amidst all this there was one person who gave me a hope that life could be better. And when that hope did not bring me out of the self-pity I was wallowing me, fate went a step ahead and destroyed her to shake me out of my idle, wasted existence. All these qualities you ascribe to me today have been made over her destruction. It seems like she had come to this world only to set me right. That is how my artist mind thinks of her. But when I put my rationality to work, I know that with care and caution, what happened to her was avoidable. It happened about thirty years ago, but HIV was avoidable. Today the medical science has progressed much further. Medicines are a lot more reliable. And yet – even today – prevention is better than cure. And even today, HIV patients need a supporting hand. What I did after she left me was what I had to do. It wasn’t a heavily deliberated decision, no great sacrifice, no act of magnanimity.  It was the one and only obvious use of my house, and my life. So, the care centre was created for HIV patients in my house, and the money that I made as a shareholder in our family business, or through my paintings, funded it initially. As the project expanded and got beyond my own financial and operational abilities, help poured in from different quarters and you all know what it is like today. Unfortunately, the work is not over. We are yet to cure or eradicate the malady. It needs an even greater push. Our foundation, now, wants to contribute to relevant research in the area. It needs money, more money. I am sure the help will pour in as usual. But I have decided to do my bit. There is a surprise waiting for your today, which was not pre-announced at my request. This is something I have kept close to my heart all my life, never shared with anyone. But now the time has come. If there are people in the audience who have appreciated my paintings, what you will see now are the ones I consider my most beautiful, at least most soulful. This set of thirty two paintings traces her life – short as it was, which gave meaning to my own life.”

At the cue, a curtain at the back of the stage went up, and thirty two paintings came in the full view of audience. There she was! For the world at last. A baby in the crib, crying, laughing, ready for school in her uniform and two pigtails, practicing dance, leaning on table doing homework, performing on stage, frowning over something, a grown up college student, a young woman in her wedding attire, a wife in saree and sindoor and single pigtail, then on the bus stop trying to avoid him, perched up on a stool and hanging a painting in her new home, looking sick and pale as the disease progressed – the series ended with a painting of her on her death bed. After the painting in the wedding attire, he had made all others after her death. From his memory, as usual.

It took the audience sometime to glance through the paintings. And the applause that erupted after that was thunderous and refused to die down.  He finally had to lift his hands to signal the audience to quieten down. When they finally did, he explained that he had made five sets out of the paintings, each having a painting from one representative phase of her life. For the first and last painting, he had made five copies, so that each set will have them to complete the story. These sets were up for bidding and the proceeds will be used by the foundation to fund HIV research.

—

Mukundo leaned back on the back seat of the car on his way back from the ceremony. He was tired. Not just from the evening’s exertions. But from the life’s as well. He had lived too long without her. He pressed a covered rectangular packet close to his heart. On her request, he had made her nude painting on a small canvas. “I want to be able to keep it beside me when I die,” she had said. After she was gone, he kept it with him all the time. Wrapped up to keep it from others. Today he had let go of all her other paintings. This one was his own.

“Mukundo Babu,” the driver called his name when he didn’t get out of the car. They had reached the apartment in which Piyali had lived and which was now his home and painting studio. His parental home had been converted to the care centre. Mukundo did not respond. Worried, the driver got out and opened his door. He tried to shake him gently to wake him up. But his body fell to one side. Lifeless! But content and smiling. The rectangular package fell in his lap. Driver picked it up with trembling hands. It had a small note on it – “Send it, as it is, with me to my funeral pyre.”

– The End –