Before my marriage, I saw a very strange dream. I saw that I was holding a brush and playing with colours, drawing a beautiful landscape. At that moment, my grandmother, a superb person with high perception, entered the room. She was clad in a white dress, with a calm and serious expression on her face — as if she was going to disclose a secret. A hidden mystery flickered in her deep eyes. She took away the paint brush from my hand and handed me a very delicate broom instead. Yes, a broom! And she whispered into my ear, “Women and brooms are inseparable. The first duty of a woman is to clean her home and provide a healthy atmosphere to the rest of her family. Her second duty is to remove dust from the mind and soul.”
I remained perturbed by the obscure dream for many days. I believe that one day, dreams turn into reality. One of my aunties, who believes in occult sciences, interpreted this dream that my marriage would create great disturbance in my work. But I did not believe her, because I know very that my fiance is a Cambridge graduate and a very refined person. However, things seem quite different from up close.
I often feel confused between reality and illusion, because reality soon turns into illusion. In my surroundings, I see people happy with such illusions, false perceptions and delusions. They believe that which is not true, or at least try to believe in it to make their lives more beautiful, such as convincing words, imagery and symbolic preferences.
Eight years of married life, and my dream ultimately came true. I have come to this conclusion that life is a great challenge for a woman, specially when she is an artist! There are lots of ideas in my mind — like waves in the sea — but if I draw even a single line, I hear his voice and must stop work. He is fond of good food while I, before marriage, had never even peeped into the kitchen. My father was of the opinion that if a woman possesses real genius, she must not be bothered about household work because creation needs concentration.
Anyway, I try my best to be a good cook with the help of recipe books. So, most of the time, I am confined to the kitchen. My hubby does not like to keep cooks or servants, perhaps in agreement with Carlyle: “The end of man is an action and not thought, though it were the noblest.” Though I like work, I don’t agree with the idea of being confined to the kitchen most of the day, as women are in most cases. Three meals a day require several hours’ labour in the kitchen. That is why a majority of women are limited to the kitchen and unable to sample the broader aspects of life.
For a healthy mind and body, they need a positive change in their environment. As working women, they are over-stressed and fell prey to anxiety and depression. By profession, I am doctor. But I think medicine and art are inter-related in some ways. For instance, the purpose of art is to enhance the mind and soul. In other words, it adds peace, harmony and happiness to life. It brings you close to nature, gives you incentive and enlightens your soul. In much the same way, a doctor can help you maintain good health and suggest remedies for disease. They help harmonize you with the entire world.
I often think about the functioning of the eyes. Have you ever seen the tiniest of blood vessels inside the eyes? They seem like the barren branches of trees in autumn, and our thoughts are like the leaves. If you possess a pasture within your soul, these would turn into green ideas like spring leaves.
A majority of my patients belong to the rural area. They mostly comprise women in miserable plight. I do believe the prosperity of a nation is closely connected with the number of happy and healthy mothers. But things go exactly in the opposite direction. Who would explain to them the true concept of life? Under the dark influence of feudalism, they are bound to suffer. If they are aware of their rights, the walls of dogmatic castles will ultimately crumble and fall. Ignorance is a useful tool in the hands of those who exploit the innocence of the downtrodden class.
I thought I could do something for these people through the medium of art. In the hospital, I always find new subjects for my art. I try to portray their faces with inner conflict. But how do I find time for all my ideas? Life is difficult, but it is more difficult when you are an artist and you have to give equal time to your home, office and art. Specially when you have three naughty kids and very non-cooperative neighbours. To live in apartments is also a difficult task as an artist. But they are affordable, easy to maintain and secure. In spite of all their merits, I feel myself caged. I always like open places, fresh and scented air, and green vistas.
Now, my life is limited only to one room with a window. I like windows as they seem like the eyes of a house. The window of my room is always wide open to new seasons. In front of it, there is a Eucalyptus tree. A small piece of sky flickers its light. Sometimes, the song of the nightingale gives me a chance to heave a sigh of relief from the monotonous cycle. Nature gives me clues to portray something different, but whenever I am ready to stroke the blank surface of a canvas, I hear his voice.
My hubby is totally dependent on me, and all the time he needs something to eat or drink. If I forget to bring him a glass of water, he will be waiting for it with a fierce look. In these eight years of married life, I have been busy with a marathon, running without any hope of reward. My Life has changed drastically. Now, I think only about husband, home and children. I am only a wife, mother and nothing else. Maybe my ideas are like the pearls that remains undiscovered in shells.
Sometimes, I think about the discrimination between male and female artists. If a woman is an artist, she has to await the approval of her plans. Her status would be determined first as a woman and then as something else. But if it is a man, he has to enjoy his genius without any distraction.
My friend’s husband is a writer. Once, she told me that he can write even if the baby has been crying for half-an-hour. I feel myself isolated, quite detached from my surroundings. Birds chirp, the sweet-scented spring breeze blows. But despite all the noise, life seems like a still photograph. I need an outlet to connect again with the colourful world of imagination. Mostly, people think that this is the age of realism, and romanticism is some sort of an escape from the harsh realities of life. But I would prefer to be a romanticist because I would like to dream about a better future for humanity, love, friendship, hope and prosperity. That is the reason I wish to continue my work without any disturbance.
Through this medium of art, I have to explain the flame of wisdom that is burning inside an artist, and hand it over to the next generation so that they can enjoy life without any discrimination. War, death, disappointment and separation are unavoidable, but we artists can tell the truth. And make all see that the truth still exists, though it is difficult to explain.
People are happy with their fantasies. Originality is being denied. The face of truth is being covered with shimmering words. The day betrays and the night denounces reality, while it is time to go back to originality. I feel all this and take refuge in the world of colours.
Talking to me, the colour green says: “I am the colour of life, the true colour of nature. I will take you along to see blooming freshness and purity.”
Pink says: “I am the colour of dreams, so bright and fascinating. I can add an immortal touch to half-opened slumberous eyes, overflowing with tranquillity. I flicker from eyes like the stars and that light will lead all of you to discover the hidden beauty of the soul, to feel the ocean within.”
Yellow says: “I am the colour of love, wait and sadness. Like a sunflower that becomes sad on the parting day and waits till the next morning for the warmth of the first, bright ray of light; alive and full of energy.”
White says: “I am the colour of purity, peace and innocence. I am the colour of the clouds, light and appealing. Up in the sky, I spread over the shade of repose and pour divine tears that soak the soil and make hope grow like wild flowers. And nature like a peacock, stretching her feathers, moves round and round.”
The colours chase me, flatter, coax, weep and cry, but I never heed. I am forced to do that. But still, I can feel the colours inside my soul. That is my world where I am happy, but I want to share all my discoveries with the common people because we artists can take people very close to nature and teach them how to protect her. We are exploiting her, and she retorts like a furious god. I agree with Wordsworth: “Nature can never betray the heart that loves her.”
A plant is growing inside me, I can feel its freshness and I wish to share it with others, and let them know how they can turn their barren soil of the heart into an oasis. But alas, I can’t find time for all this. And I also cannot explain to my grandmother that I am unable to remove dust from minds and souls!
Before my marriage, I saw a very strange dream. I saw that I was holding a brush and playing with colours, drawing a beautiful landscape. At that moment, my grandmother, a superb person with high perception, entered the room. She was clad in a white dress, with a calm and serious expression on her face — as if she was going to disclose a secret. A hidden mystery flickered in her deep eyes. She took away the paint brush from my hand and handed me a very delicate broom instead. Yes, a broom! And she whispered into my ear, “Women and brooms are inseparable. The first duty of a woman is to clean her home and provide a healthy atmosphere to the rest of her family. Her second duty is to remove dust from the mind and soul.”
