Seven-year-old Safiya was in great spirits, her steps lithe with the innocence that only childhood could inject. It was a lazy Sunday morning in her cozy home in Singapore, and she was furiously at work, furrowed brow, deep in concentration. Her pudgy fingers held a paintbrush adorned in crimson, as she attempted to mimic the protagonist Ishaan from Taare Zameen Par, a movie she had watched just the day before. She imagined herself as a celebrated artist, whose creative genius left silent legacies in vivid brushstrokes. Holding up the masterpiece to her encouraging parents in pride, she basked in the warm, gushing praise that only a parent can heap on a young, impressionable heart. That was the birth of the young artist.
Dry pencil sketches transformed into translucent and wet watercolors. Her experiments then led her to realistic oil paintings, and soon there was no corner of the home that wasn’t adorned with a makeshift art exhibition. While other kids looked forward to weekend parties and get-togethers with friends, hers were spent competing in innumerable art contests. The trophy shelf soon turned into a trophy cupboard, and the little amateur into a confident, award-winning artist. Then came the crucial fork in any Indian student’s life, where the crown of intellect and the coercion of societal prestige warranted the PCMB stream choice—a no-brainer for any self-respecting high achiever. Art got relegated to the position of occasional indulgence, met surreptitiously in intervals akin to young lovers whose dalliances blossomed entirely away from society’s prying eyes.
At 18, swayed by a youthful impulse, she decided to return to her motherland, India, for her university. Now she found herself staring at the formidable beast of the great Indian entrance exam—the epic equalizer that separated wheat from chaff, the cream from the milk, or simply the multiple-choice whizzes from other less coveted but arguably equally valuable skills. Safiya, however, was a polymath and aced the entrances just as easily as her brushes glided on the canvas. With eyes glimmering with hope for the future, she walked into the halls of the hallowed engineering college that had produced many an awe-inspiring alumnus.
Nestled cozily in her hostel room on the first night, she was in for a rude shock at midnight. The seniors had organized an “interaction” to get to know each other well at this unearthly hour. She sat among her batchmates, watching as they danced, acted, sang, and entertained the seniors with their self-professed hobbies and talents. Soon it was her turn. She got up, introduced herself in the customary humble manner befitting a fresher, and then her hobby: Art and Painting. First grave mistake that she was yet unaware of making.
What followed was night after sleepless night of her painting humongous charts to serve as backdrops for every possible college event—be it a singing contest or a “screwing juniors” one, there was only one constant: her paintings were the backdrop. They served as the blank canvas for many a college memory, turning a four-walled auditorium into mystical worlds of imaginary heroes and villains. However, the fairytale ended the moment the last song or dance wrapped up. The breathtaking paintings that she spent sleepless nights crafting were cruelly torn down and thrown in the trash—having served their short-lived and entirely transactional purpose. Along with each of her masterpieces that were thrown away callously, a small piece of the artist’s heart died. Soon she began to look for avenues to appreciate her art the way she deserved—the way she remembered being appreciated as a child—front and center, not a side character or backdrop of any other show.
Through carefully curated Instagram reels accompanied by aesthetic music embodying the mood that she was in while she brought each work to life, she made baby steps into a world of independent art. She also looked forward to the annual inter-college festival, her eyes set on the watercolor and pencil sketching categories to showcase her artistic prowess. As the day loomed closer, she excitedly entered her name on the participant list, daydreaming of her name being called as the winner as she brought glory to her alma mater.
Safiya… Safiya… she heard her batchmates cheer for her… Safiya! The cheering had turned into a raucous and rude screech. Pulled down into reality, she saw her senior, a no-nonsense third-year, asking her what she was doing with brushes and paint on the side when there were so many administrative chores left to be done as the host college. She looked at the senior with pleading puppy-dog eyes, hoping to thaw the ice and eke out an hour or two to paint her masterpiece, but to no avail.
Finally, after the chores were done, she had just enough time to make a rushed artwork and slide it into the hands of the organizer right at the last minute. Her joy knew no bounds when, despite her haste, she still managed to win the first prize! Seeing her name on the notice board made her feel like the young artist within her was resurrecting herself. However, her joy was short-lived as soon after she was handed a certificate in a hushed and downbeat manner—no pompous announcements, no cheering crowds, just a silent and sterile exchange of documents as acknowledgment. At first, she was crushed. Her artist soul’s pain welled up as wet drops in her eyes in the sanctity of her hostel room. She put on the song Zinda from Lootera—her ultimate sad anthem—as she moped about her pathetic fate. In the midst of a heap of loud sobs, there was one moment of epiphany, and that’s when it struck her.
All those events that had seemed so painful to her were merely life—the master sculptor’s way of chiseling out her inner artist’s need for external validation. But if an artist only works for praise, are they any better than a performing monkey or a circus trapeze artist? The true mark of art is freedom: freedom from the fear of judgment, from the need for the fodder of praise, or from the stinging blows of criticism. And from the ashes of the young artist thirsting for praise was reborn the master craftsman who no longer cared about applause. The artist whose own heartbeat was so loud in its applause of her work that she simply couldn’t notice who wasn’t clapping for her.
Finally, her work had turned from mere art into raw obsession—or as they put it in Hindi, Yeh fitoor mera, laaya mujhko hai tere kareeb!
And from the depths of her heart, a small verse took shape:
“The love of you is my madness and also my sanity
Born as you are from the depths of my pain
Neither are you a crown for my vanity
Nor are you an ex-lover to whom ignorance I feign
The unsaid qualms whose pressure stifles my soul
Finds release in the colors ruining your pristine white
I remain the fragment while you are my whole
Dissolving into you I find both my death and absolute delight”
