Painted Ghosts, page 13
‘You will easily sell them.’ Stella sipped tea from her cup. Wincing she put it down: too sweet. At least Lena had not been at her flask so far today; she was so much better, clearer and fun to be with when she was sober.
‘To some rich collector,’ Lena added.
‘I can hope.’
‘You will,’ Stella assured him.
Lena was back at the pictures. ‘She’s very shy in front of him — Sohni.’
Arun carried on with the story: ‘She doesn’t declare her love for him as quickly as he does. She respectfully holds back her feelings.’
Stella smiled. ‘You have caught that so beautifully.’
‘Is it true?’ Lena watched him, looking for answers from him all the time, Stella perceived.
‘They say so. Hundreds of years ago, so it got handed down to us this way. It happened in a village in an area that became part of Pakistan when India was divided during Partition in 1947.’
‘Here’s some more sketches of Izzat Baig as a young man — Stella, look — Get him, eh? Smooth features, thick black hair, an endearing smile — he’s fit all right. So handsome it scares poor Sohni. She hides away behind a pile of pots.’
They laughed. Stella had given in to curiosity, not only of the story, but Arun’s part in it all. ‘And who modelled for him?’
‘One of the boys from the fishing boats. You can see him working down there every day.’
‘Yes, I know him,’ said Lena. ‘At least I think I’ve seen him. But what happened to your model for Sohni?’
Stella watched them both: Lena getting more involved in the story and the sketches, and Arun trying to remain in control. He turned aside and fiddled with some pencils. ‘Probably married with children.’
‘You don’t know?’
‘She went to another city I think. Pune, or somewhere.’
‘You didn’t keep track of your muse?’
For a moment Stella noticed Arun seemed nervous and to be holding back. He was usually so open and chatty.
She quickly found herself frustrated with the side track and wanted to get to the end of the story. ‘So what happens next?’
Arun went to a chair, picked up a small bundle of pictures and brought them over. Stella pored over the top ones. ‘He can’t keep his eyes off her. And here’s her father again. And who’s this other young man? Her brother?’
‘There’s a problem.’ Arun smiled and gave a little shrug. ‘Sohni is already promised by her father and mother to a man of her class in the next village.’
Stella observed the travelling merchant in one of the drawings. ‘Izzat Baig is dressed in fine clothes — his neat shalwar kameez — his beard is neatly trimmed.’
‘This other guy looks like he’s just fallen off a horse.’ Lena mocked the smaller figure.
‘Sohni must marry this man, ’Arun looked with her at the bridegroom, smiling with her, then nodded at another sketch. ‘Izzat Baig is asking Sohni’s father for her hand.’
‘And he waves Izzat away, ’Lena pointed. ‘Poor sod. He can’t have his princess.’
Stella was ahead of herself again. ‘So many sketches you’ve done, all the story. And this one — they meet — look at this one — in secret.’
‘By the river, ’ Arun indicated.
‘She’s in love with him now, isn’t she?’ Lena turned to Arun again.
‘Can they run away together?’ asked Stella.
‘The wedding to the local boy is small, ’Arun carried on. ‘They are a poor family. But there is music and dancing.’
Stella studied the wedding scene. ‘You are so good at capturing characters in your sketches, they’re recognisable and real. Look at these dancers. And who are these?’
‘Hijra,’ Arun said. ‘Men who have become women. There is a long tradition in India, going back beyond the eunuchs in the Mughals’ courts. They bring good fortune to newly married couples and bless them with fertility.’
‘Dancing and singing, ’ Stella observed.
‘But this isn’t going to be good fortune and fertility is it? ’ Lena gazed at the wedding party.
‘So what does Izzat Baig do?’
‘Here he is now —’ Arun handed Stella another small sketch.
‘This is him? Herding cattle? A bit low down for a merchant, isn’t it?’
‘He gives up being a merchant, ’Arun carried on. ‘Tells the camel train to go on without him.’
‘Gives up all his wealth, ’ Lena laughed. ‘What a man.’
‘He called himself Mahiwal — which means buffalo herder — and made his home in a poor man’s hut on the other side of the river from where Sohni lived with her new husband.’
‘Where have these kind of men gone?’ Lena laughed again. ‘Find me one.’
‘In this picture she is standing on the river bank looking over at him,’ Stella said.
‘What happens next?’
Arun stepped back. ‘Sohni can’t swim, so she’s using one of her big hard baked pots to hang onto and float over.’
‘And they hug on the other bank, ’Stella said.
‘And they get up to things in that naughty little hut.’ Lena held her mouth. ‘What an amazing story. She left her husband and went off into the horizon with the cow herd, who was a wealthy merchant. It can’t be bad.’ Stella watched her looking at Arun who was ready to carry on. Lena finished. ‘It can’t be like that, can it?’ Her affection for Arun was clear.
Stella laughed. ‘The husband kills her and Izzat throws himself in the river?’
Arun was shaking his head. ‘It is the spying sister-in-law—’
‘This is her then, in this one.’ Stella fingered the next. ‘Watching from behind bushes as Sohni gets the big pot she’s hidden in the rushes and pushes herself across the river to Izzat’s hut. And the sister-in-law sees the shape of her lover on the other bank. They are hugging.’
‘The sister- in-law tightens her fists, ’Arun led them on. ‘This can never happen. This will bring great shame on the family.’
‘What does the sister-in-law do? ’asked Lena.
‘She finds Sohni’s hidden pot in the reeds and swaps it with another pot. When Sohni comes back that night she takes the new pot and starts to swim out, ’said Arun.
‘But what’s this.’ Lena looked perturbed. ‘She’s sinking. And she’s crying out to Izzat. Arun?’
‘The sister-in-law swapped Sohni’s hard baked earthenware pot with a soft unbaked one that breaks up in the water.’
‘The witch’— Stella hissed.
‘Izzat Baig hears her cries from the other bank and tries to swim out to her. The pot crumbles. They fall into each other’s arms and are swept away.’
Stella and Lena looked on silently.
6
‘A real tear jerker then. ’Lena sat on the long sofa. ‘A sad story of love and loss. It crosses lines — of marriage, of class and caste—’
‘That’s what gives it such beauty I think.’ Stella stayed glancing at all the drawings.
‘And why it’s lasted, ’Arun said. ‘I must get you more drinks — and some snacks. ’He left them, returning a moment later with juices and Bombay Mix and nuts and small pakoras on a plate. ‘It would make a good song. ’He smiled, placing the goodies on a small table in front of them.
Stella put a couple of pakoras on a small plate. ‘You’ve still got your wife’s piano?’
‘In the back room, just as she left it. No one has touched it since she passed. I think only a special person could be allowed to open it and press their fingers on the keys—’ He smiled, gesturing them to carrying on eating. Stella noticed Lena grimacing.
‘Here’s the last portrait.’ Arun held up a canvas showing the figure of a young man.
‘Oh but you’ve put a lot of effort into that,’ said Stella, chewing. ‘The youth, full of energy and love. He’s waiting for her.’
Lena got up and walked over, taking the canvas in her hands and scrutinising it. ‘It is you, Arun. You used yourself as a model in this one.’
He looked embarrassed. ‘The story is not done, really.’
‘But it is so much you, Arun,’ Lena carried on. ‘You’ve lost your Sohni, it’s there in your face. The face of a man cut deeply by love, yet with the vitality of a young man.’
‘You read in so much, Lena,’ Stella said.
‘A man still in grief for his wife—’
‘Lena, have a thought for Arun’s feelings—’
Arun gave a short sigh. ‘It’s all a myth really.’ He gave a brief breathy laugh. ‘Just like life — a conundrum — a bewildering maze we crawl through—’
Lena laughed. ‘Getting most of it wrong as we go.’
Arun took the portrait from Lena. ‘Life brings us one precious thing at least — experience — with which we can enlighten ourselves, or torture ourselves.’
Stella took a spoonful of Bombay Mix, spread it in a small dish and took finger-fulls. ‘Very profound, I must say.’ She meant to tease him, but realised it sounded ironic and mocking.
‘You’re so sceptical,’ Lena lightly chided her. ‘The man can see things, his art says so.’ Lena squinted at Arun, saying to him, ‘You have been there. Hell and back.’
Stella tensed her shoulders, pushing back her emotions. ‘You think because I’m not an artist or singer my every day hells don’t count.’
Lena turned away from her. ‘Did they find their bodies?’
‘Washed up on a sandy strip at the river bank. ’Arun poured glasses of pineapple juice for them. ‘Every year a group of people meet to remember the story.’
‘It’s become a cult?’ Stella sipped her pineapple juice. Probably Lena was yearning for a dash of gin in hers.
‘Just a rich man with a big house and wide gardens on an island in a river in the south. They get together in his gardens and watch a dancer perform the story of the lovers, accompanied by sitar and tabla.’
‘Sounds marvellous,’ said Lena and laughing added, ‘When can we go?’
Stella cut in attempting to soften Lena’s demands. ‘By special invitation only, I should think.’
‘It’s not the real river, of course, that’s way up in Pakistan now.’ Arun appeared to ignore the pleas and the sibling rivalry. ‘But they celebrate the story — like you might celebrate Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet — they play it out through music and dance. And they call it: The Garden of Izzat Baig. ’He sipped his juice again. ‘It’s all very secret and select. Only once a year. Yes, by special invitation only. For many hours through the night they perform without tiring as a tribute to the lost lovers. They say the music hypnotises the performers as well as the listeners. All are taken on a journey through the heights and depths of existence, experiencing moments of gravity and supreme bliss.’
Stella smiled at him, assuming he was going over the top.
‘Where does it happen? When? ’ Lena said.
‘Music has power. ’ He looked at her. ‘You know this, Lena. Music is made for taking people on journeys inside themselves. The hairs on the back of your neck tingling, your stomach turning over, the feeling you might faint, or fly up to the stars. You have felt that, Lena, I know.’
Lena was quiet and unsteady a moment, Stella could feel. ‘I’m not sure I have,’ Stella said.
‘It’s a moment that is just as exciting in its transcendence as the feelings of first love.’
‘I must have missed out on both, ’Stella said with irony, smiling.
‘Where have you been? ’ Lena joked.
‘I heard you play the piano once and it was beautiful. Maybe if you had carried on with it you might have taken me to those heights. ’ Stella pushed her sister in reply.
Arun nodded towards the adjoining room. ‘You could start by opening my wife’s piano. It is in need of—’
Lena shook her head, he took note and carried on. ‘Performers and audience are spellbound as the dancer acts out the story, her leaps and swirls express the highs and lows and her finger movements and gestures add to an enriching hypnotic experience. At the end no one talks or applauds, they sit mesmerised, and then they drift off in a trance. People say it has changed their lives, given them insights — that somehow their consciousness has taken a jolt and everything seems clear — problems just drift away. They say it takes you into deep parts of the cosmos and you become aware of some sort of essence — a sort of bliss, or godliness — an individual spiritual journey—’
‘You do big up a story, Arun.’ Stella joked with him at the end.
Lena sat forward. ‘Have you ever painted that — the Garden of Izzat Baig? With performers and audience and everything?’
‘I have thought about it, but never dared.’
‘What are you afraid of?’
‘What every artist fears. Failing to pull it off. Or thinking you have pulled it off, but in reality you have made a ridiculous mess.’
‘You’re better than that, ’ said Lena.
‘And so are you. But you will not touch a piano — probably for the same reason—’
‘It’s not that at all,’ Lena said sharply.
‘God knows why she’s like this.’ Stella thought for a moment about his descriptions. ‘It all sounds like a big hippy trip to me,’ Stella chuckled playfully. ‘A bit like getting off on weed.’
‘More than any drug inspired trips,’ Arun reassured her. ‘Words can’t explain. But you come out renewed, with a sense of purpose, as though your past has been shed like a snakeskin. You must have been there, Lena.’
‘Once,’ Lena smiled at the memory. ‘The guitarist’s strings broke, and he was so stoned he just stopped playing in the middle of the song. And so did the back line. I carried on singing without them. Like the song existed on its own and I was just the instrument it came out of. It went on and on. The crowd were suddenly hushed. I was somewhere else — up high somewhere — a sort of place of yes — bliss — a place where nothing can touch you, you can come to no harm—’
‘What were you taking that night?’ Stella finished Lena’s dream with a laugh.
‘Nothing.’
But Stella couldn’t fully believe her. Stella’s sympathy for what Lena had gone through checked her frustration at her sister’s reluctance to sing again and put her hands on the keys. Reliving again the moment she had seen Lena, the teenage girl, singing her own song accompanied by the piano, she could see music had always been an answer to Lena. And although music had never given Stella the same kind of highs since and she was sceptical of the kind of bliss it seemed to generate in others, she could see that Lena was not a full person without it in her life. ‘You can get it again, Lena,’ Stella said quietly. ‘Without the other stuff—’
Lena was agitated now. And she hadn’t had a slug of gin yet. ‘Too much water under the bridge. Too many chemicals in the brain. I can’t find my way back to that place.’ The old tortured expression was on her face, Stella registered.
‘I can take you to the Garden’,Arun told Lena softly.
‘And me? ’ Stella said.
‘You wouldn’t get it,’ Lena sounded bitter.
‘You can both come as my guests.’
‘If she gets bored, she’ll fidget all night. And she does get bored quickly, Stella does.’
‘She will enjoy it too.’
Stella felt the old resentments towards her sister rising. Just because she wasn’t a musician herself did not mean Stella could not appreciate the cultural side of the event. ‘Promise? It’s just music and dancing. None of this highfalutin spiritual nonsense. The world’s the world and that’s it. Get on with it.’
Arun kept with Lena. ‘You are very attracted by Sohni’s story, I think.’
‘There’s some words to a song running through my brain. I keep fighting it, but they won’t go:“She runs through the moonlight, Sohni, Sohni, to hold her Izzat tight . . .” ’
‘You are a poet.’
‘I need my guitarist man, Sam, to work out backing chords and—’
‘Would you work with me?’
‘That would be amazing. Do you play guitar?’
‘Give me the words and I’ll put music to them. My wife taught me some chords—’
Stella watched her closely: she would shy away now, that was certain. And she was right:
‘The song is not very good, ’ Lena ended.
Stella couldn’t hold back her frustration around Lena. ‘What is the matter with you? This is your chance to get back on the rails.’ Lena looked scared. ‘Get hold of yourself, for god’s sake.’
‘We can’t force things,’ Arun tried to calm them.
‘Sometimes we do. Get to that piano, Lena and do your stuff. Do it.’
‘Slowly,’ Arun said. ‘When she’s ready.’
‘She’ll never be ready, she’s been like this for years. A jobbing singer who could have climbed to heights — recording contracts, big tours. She could have become a household name. But for this piano business. I heard her writing songs on the piano when she was thirteen. How she worked at it, the sounds were amazing. She was god’s gift. And she blows it.’ Lena got up and strode to the table top of sketches as Stella went on, ‘She throws it all back at us. Mum was distraught — bought you a piano, got you lessons. She would have scrubbed floors to get you a grand piano if you had asked, anything. And you drop it. Just a bloody phase you’re going through.’
‘No, Stella.’ Lena was shaking.
‘You’re bloody impossible. You say I was spoiled. You got everything you wanted — all the attention. Did anybody buy me anything like a piano? One that had to be sent away? What’s the matter with you?’
Lena seemed lost in herself for a long time. Arun got up and came over to them.
‘I—’ Lena began.
‘What?’ Stella urged her.
‘It was a long time ago.’
‘Thank god for that. Wise up, Lena. This man wants to help you.’
‘I don’t need help.’
‘What then?’
‘I cracked it.’
‘The drugs, yes. Life — no.’ Stella gave an ironic laugh.
Lena looked drained, but Stella would not let her go. Lena wrung her hands. ‘My piano teacher.’
