Stumbling upon delight

The thing about living in an old fashioned little colony in a largish city is the lazy familiarity it breeds. Not so much the intrusive intimacy of village life, but a mutual mapping of life’s highlights. You know a lot about people with whom you may have exchanged no more than a hundred sentences in twenty years, because of the jobs they have held, their stand on garbage disposal, the periodic renovations of their houses, the kinds of women their sons have married etc. You live around them for so long that if there are no serious ripples in the facades, you think you have them pegged. When suddenly somebody manages to shake you out of this complacency, by revealing an exciting secret life, it is very thrilling, and makes you really wonder how much you are probably missing.

I got back from Devarakonda yesterday and felt like stretching my legs in the evening and so towed the mater along for a walk. There is a little dead-end littered colony adjacent to us that has quiet streets but is home to packs of jealous dogs. But we felt brave and ventured forth. I was in the middle of an animated sentence when something caught my eye. Too deep into what I was saying I took another dozen steps before I knew I just had to go back and investigate for my own peace of mind. On a very small section of the bottom of an otherwise ordinary building was an extraordinary mural integrated into the building, all with drainage pipe and beam structures. Intrigued, I walked closer to see that a little pathway of textured cement paving led up to a door. It was entirely inviting and no harm could come of just popping my head in. I was fully prepared to explain myself to strangers, when I walked into the darlingest room/artist studio you ever saw. Instead of a stranger, the man who stood before me was a man who I had thought of as salt-of-the-earth kind of banker for close-on twenty five years.

I just said Namaste and barged in and it was quite obvious that I had thoroughly discomfited him. But I was a little stunned by all the visual stimuli around me and the implications of it, and anyway I was too fascinated to be able to do the decent thing and leave quickly. Instead I stood there and gaped and asked questions. How long had he been doing it, what mediums does he use, does he exhibit and I jabbered on all the time staring at the walls – the man had talent, this was no keep-yourself-busy-after-retirement kind of outfit; quite obviously it was the real thing.

I think he was desperately tempted to pass off the whole thing as a something belonging to his friend, a very young man who was standing by watching us. But that man was even less interested than me in accommodating my neighbour’s obvious desire for secrecy. He showed me specifically to all the most interesting pieces and told me how they met at an art gallery and immediately struck a rapport and started a partnership. My head was reeling a bit by now and so it was lucky that my mother came to check if I had disappeared into a time-portal. This was not so lucky for the poor man who probably thought I was bad enough without having to contend with my mother too. Anyway she managed to draw me away before I could beg to be shown above stairs through that incredibly delightful yellow painted stairway. With repeated threats of visiting again, I left.

I bounced the entire way back home. It was too delightful a revelation to credit. I am just a very tiny bit concerned that I have chanced upon the secret life of a person and that I should perhaps have slunk away without uttering a squeak. But since I doubt I was capable of it if my life depended on it, I shall not fret. And it is such a wonderful secret that surely just me knowing it can’t hurt?