𝖆𝖓𝖆𝖓𝖉.𝖇

1

Stars sparkled on the lake which mirrored the clear blue sky of a winter morning. The ground adjacent to it lies vacant for the most part of the year, but now it hosts an exhibition of arts and craft. A large brick and plaster structure marks the entrance. Abbi chose a spot beside it to spread his paraphernalia of a small easel and a palette for his drawings, a wooden stool for the customer, and a suitcase to sit on. Behind him, leaning against the coarse structure were some of his earlier works on display. He adjusts himself on the suitcase for a more comfortable position and stares at the glistening water on the lake.

Visitors to the exhibition begin to trickle in, staring at the colorful entrance, throwing a cursory glance at Abbi's artwork and scarcely looking at the glittering lake. 'It looks like the entrance to a medieval fort!' said a lady to her husband, dragging their little son who is pulling them in the direction of a park close to the lake. 'A poor imitation,' commented her husband as he went over to purchase the tickets. 'It is only a front,' he continued, 'there's nothing but gaping hollowness on the other side.'

Soon there formed a long line of families, couples and aimless drifters awaiting their turn to pass through the gates. Abbi started drawing his own profile on the canvas as truthfully as he could remember the lines, curves and hollows in his face. The visitors became a little more interested as the drawing began to take shape. Abbi drew slowly, as he if he had all the time in the world.

He finished two portraits of himself in a languid hour. Then, abruptly, he folded the stool, removed the canvas from the easel and rolled it up. Picking up the items of his trade one by one, he carefully packed them all in his suitcase. Without looking at the queue of visitors, he sauntered round the exhibition walls and arrived at the exit. There he found a place beneath a tree to set up shop all over again. He pinned his drawings on the trunk of the tree and before it laid the canvas on the easel. With his back to the exiting visitors he started to work again in the same way as he had done earlier. The lines glided slowly across the page and little by little the form appeared. Hand poised over the sheet, he deliberated a good deal before completing a curve or a line. He noticed without looking up that some people milled about him, perhaps marveling, or probably wondering if he had made a mistake. In any case they lingered long enough until the form became recognizable. Then they moved on, making room for others behind them.

A young woman wanted her portrait done, and her mate reluctantly agreed. As Abbi worked, the man fidgeted and the woman kept shifting her eyes. He could see that the little boy, whom he had seen at the entrance, dragged his parents towards Abbi. His father looked at his watch impatiently, but his mother allowed herself to be led. Abbi finished the woman's portrait quickly and helped the boy to sit on the stool. The boy sat still and gazed at Abbi through out the drawing session. It was rare indeed to have a cooperating customer who sat like a statue while Abbi worked. He summoned up all his drawing skill to do justice to the face before him. When it was finally done, even the boy's father was beside himself with admiration and donated generously.

2

In a few days the exhibition moved out leaving a yawning emptiness. The garden beside it basked idly during the day, for the people came only in the evenings. As winter advanced the cold turned people away earlier than usual. Abbi's income fell back to the time before the event, the stream having become a trickle overnight.

One day as he walked listlessly back to his one-room tenement through a crowded bazaar he passed by a temple. It was a route he had not taken earlier and the sudden appearance of the temple with its frescoed walls rather stumped him for a moment. He stood and watched the figures on the walls, especially the faces. Except for the facial embellishments and the decorated attire, the faces seemed to vary very little from one another. He moved on: the stomach began to rumble, but the walled spectacle began to work in his mind.

Working at a frenetic pace with little or no rest and food of equal measure Abbi recreated a few drawings in the likes of what he saw on the temple walls. This time he set up shop close to the temple, where people had to pass by him to get to their parked vehicles. The drawings sold quickly and the stomach complained less and less.

As business grew Abbi sold at other temples also. He estimated that he had sold in a year more than he had since he started to sell his work five years ago. One of the customers was the mother of the little boy whose portrait he had made at the exhibition. As his mother was going through the stack of drawings before the purchase, the boy recognized him. He smiled and asked him sweetly what his name was. Abbi said, 'Abhiram. Call me Abbi.' The boy proffered his little hand and intoned, 'Vikram.'

Wishing to extend his clientele, Abbi made sketches of Jesus and met with similar success at the local church. Though he demurely introduced himself as Abbi, his customers knew him as Abraham. Soon, however, he returned to the temple drawings, for he found the immense variety there not only lucrative but more challenging in terms of the effort required and the skill demanded.

3

One day, as he prepared to close shop for the day, two men muscular and hard-nosed laid a heavy hand on his shoulder. Fear trembled in his heart. His hands shook and dropped the drawings he had collected to pack into his suitcase. One of the men picked up a drawing and looked hard at it and then turned the gaze on him. That's him, he said, take him away. The men bundled him into a waiting jeep and whisked him away.

"Where are you taking me?" The words came out with difficulty as he felt a lump in his throat. There was no answer. The jeep halted before a building with a wide entrance. They took him into a room where a man in white clothes and a black coat sat behind a desk. While he stood waiting and wondering what it was all about, the men placed some of his drawings on the desk. The men spoke something in a low voice and stood back in deference.

The man at the desk looked at the drawings slowly as if he were studying them and then scrutinized the offender's face. What's your name? He asked.

Abbi.

Full name?

I don't know.

Religion?

I don't know.

Family?

None.

The man in black spoke something rapidly to the two waiting men. They removed the papers from his desk and led Abbi away to a room and asked him to wait.

Abbi felt hungry and an itch to draw. The room had one window overlooking a street. The bare walls absorbed the noise and dust from the street. The noon heat turned the dust into grime and scarred the walls.

Abbi tore a piece of cloth from the inner lining in his shirt and began to work on a wall. The cloth in his hands doubled as an eraser and a drawing tool. Before long a figure appeared on the wall and he set about to refine its contours.

4

Sometime later as he dozed from hunger and boredom, the sound of approaching feet alerted him. Vikram the little boy came into the room followed by his parents. Abbi took the boy's hand, tiny and soft, and smiled a greeting.

“What are you doing here?” Vikram asked. He noticed the drawing on the wall and said, “Oh, they called you to draw for them!”

“He is here to stand trial, my son,” explained the boy's father. “If you had not pointed out, we would all have continued in ignorance and invited the wrath of the gods.”

Abbi looked perplexed. The

boy seemed to sense that somehow he was responsible for Abbi's arrest.

“What did I do, Ma?” The boy asked. “Why is Abbi in jail?”

A priest from a nearby church walked into the room. He looked at the drawing on the wall and crossed himself, kissing the image of Jesus hanging from his neck. He shook his head at Abbi and said, “the Lord will not forgive you.”

“Is this the little boy who spotted the counterfeit?” he asked. Vikram's father nodded, feeling pleased and proud at the same time. “God bless you child,” said the padre. The mother drew the child closer and locked him behind her arms, watching the spectacle with a mixture of pity and righteous indignation.

Abbi leaned against the wall dumb and uncomprehending. He looked at them blankly and felt a knot in his stomach, more from fear than from hunger. What did the little boy do that turned everyone against him? The boy looked straight at him and reflected his own confusion and uncertainty.

A man came in and ushered all of them out and escorted Abbi to the office of the magistrate. Some people occupied the chairs in the room. To Abbi the room appeared sombre and the air he breathed felt heavy. Everyone looked at him as though he committed something unpardonable.

The magistrate scanned Abbi's drawings placed before him on the desk. He adjusted his spectacles and said: “Who is behind all this?” he asked waving at the drawings.

“Who is behind what, Sir?” Abbi asked, perplexed at the question.

“Who is instigating you to draw these pictures?”

Abbi shook his head. “I live by my drawings, Sir. They fetch me good money.” At this, a low murmur began among the people seated in the room.

“They all look alike,” observed the magistrate.

Not knowing how to respond, Abbi remained silent.

“The Hindu gods and the Christian prophet look alike, why?”

“Luckily, Sir, the Muslims don't worship an image of the God and so we are spared,” observed a Muslim cleric from the audience.

“Maybe this is his way of scoffing at the gods, goaded by the godless,” said a man in a saffron robe.

“Silence, please.”

The magistrate repeated the question and said, “Answer the question, please.”

Abbi fidgeted and said, “Sir, I am hungry. May I get someting to eat?”

The magistrate looked at the clock. Beside it, a framed picture of Mahatma Gandhi looked benignly down at the august session. The magistrate postponed the trial for another day.

5

“Where did you grow up?”

“I was brought up in a Masjid by a kind man. He called me Ibrahim and told me that he had found me abandoned near a garbage dump.”

“Where?”

“In the neighboring village. A few years later, he died of some illness and his relatives drove me out.”

“When did you learn to draw?”

“A church father took pity and allowed me stay in his church. He was fond of me and called me Abraham. I ran errands for him. He taught me how to draw.”

“Did you leave the church?”

“I used my drawing skills to make some money. When the church ordered me to return the money to the pool, I refused and ran away.”

“Ungrateful,” murmured the padre.

“Silence, please.”

“What wrong did I do, Sir?”

“You drew the images of the gods in your own likeness.”

“I did not know the true faces of the gods.”

“You must follow the images in the temples or the idols of Jesus Christ in a Church.”

“They are also done by artists like me.”

“Right. But they don't draw themselves as gods.”

“The gods in one temple don't resemble those in another. It is the same with the images of Jesus.”

“By drawing your own image, you have offended the sensibilities of the worshippers.”

“I did not intend to offend them. I drew those pictures according to the only face I knew very well.”

“They can't worship your face. It hurts their sentiments.”

“Please show me the true faces of the Gods and I shall follow them.”

The magistrate ordered confiscation of all his drawings. He relased Abbi with a reprimand and a warning.

When Abbi returned to his lodgings in the mild winter evening, he saw a bonfire on the street. However, there was no one to draw the warmth from it. As he drew closer to it, he saw the half burnt pictures of the gods crackling under the raging fire.