Current music: Kahin door jab din dhal jaaye

The following short story is based on this photograph that I came across recently.

He squinted his eyes as the September sun beat down upon him, the streets of Paris were fairly empty at this time of the day, save for the artists lining the road. He carefully arranged his canvas and cleaned the brushes meticulously. Painting was his second love, the first, his petite wife Marie. In another hour, it would be teatime and he smiled to himself as he remembered how she would bustle about in the kitchen, the gloves on her dainty fingers, the smell of freshly baked cake and how she would chide him for spending so much time with his paintings and so less time with her. Now he had all the time in the world, but she was long gone. He tried not to remember what had happened that fateful day, the wooden casket, hushed voices, she looked so beautiful even then, lying there, then moving from Marseilles to Paris, he was still angry at her for not letting him paint her portrait. Off late, his finances dwindling, he spent his days taking up odd painting jobs at the corner of Rue 10 close to the Champs Elysées and as evening drew near and the light grew weaker, it was a long walk back to a grubby studio apartment .


“Bonjour Monsieur, will you paint this one for me”
He looked up to see a gentleman holding a photo. “Its beautiful, where is this?”
“The Li River in China, its astounding isn’t it?”
“I have never seen anything like it before, its almost ethereal.”
“So will you do it”
“Oui, oui, certainly Monsieur. You could come back tomorrow evening, it will be ready then.”
“How much?”
“25 euros?”
“Done. I will be back, I am Jacques, Jacques Petit”

He studied the photo carefully, Marie would have loved it. She loved water and anything to do with it. The easel was up now, he started mixing the paints. He reflected on the man in the boat, was he alone or did he have a family. Maybe beyond the mountains, there would be an old couple just like them, a bush-lined pathway and a cottage with roses and vine climbing up the wall just like theirs.

Quick deft strokes, he was lucky that his hands were stable even now. The café nearby was filling up, some of them watched him while at work. At first it used to irk him, but he had gotten kind of used to it. He decided to do a bit of the mountains and pack up for the day.

Early next day, coffee and a baguette at the bistro and back to the painting. He painted best in the cool morning air. A fresh mix of paints and now he worked on the boat and the light within. A talented photographer, he mused. Once in a while he stopped to rest his back or reflect on his work. The clouds and the sunrise now. Sunrise? He checked himself, or what is it sunset or late afternoon? It had to be sunset he decided, just like his life, nothing to look forward to, his odd painting jobs wouldn’t last forever, business was slow and people not too trusting.

A small group of tourists had gathered about him, chattering excitedly. He smiled at them, habituated to such situations by now. Monsieur Petit would be here soon. A small signature in the corner and he had finished.

“Good evening, all done?”
“Yes Monsieur, here have a look”
Jacques Petit did not speak for a few seconds.
“You did not like it, Monsieur Petit?”
“You are brilliant. I deal in house interiors. Will you work with me?”
“You are being kind. But I do not like such jokes”
“I have never been more serious. Come with me, we shall talk things over”
“Wait, Monsieur Petit, I have a question. Is this sunrise or sunset?”
“What do you think it is?”
“Well, I thought it was sunset, maybe I was too hasty in thinking so. I feel it must be sunrise, and the man has a good catch in his boat”
A small tear fell onto the painting, he continued, “Thank you, thank you Monsieur, for the promise of a new dawn in the twilight years of my life.”

Marie would have loved the painting too. She had liked watching the sun rise from their little cottage by the sea.