I met the man on the Metro.
He was gazing at me intently, so absorbed in his gaze that he didn’t even notice the reproachful looks I was giving him; either that, or he didn’t care. I wished someone would come and block me from his view, but nobody noticed that he was staring at me.
He kept at the staring for so long; I started wondering why he didn’t get bored of it. And yet…there was something about the way he did it. He did it ever so carefully; an attempt to soak in all details of an image. It was more of an examination rather than ogling, I decided. He seemed to take his time in the whole process, and yet managed to take a whole body scan of me.
Suddenly the train stopped, an announcement was made and the man was gone.
The next day, my family and I met the man in the Metro again. This time he was observing a light-blue bag. Seeing the man at work, I realized how meticulously he did it. Curiosity bubbled in me. Why? Why did he inspect things like that? What was so special in a bag?
I leaned towards Mama, who was standing next to me, holding the same pole that I was grasping. “Why does that man observe things that way Mama? It’s as though he’s studying it!” Mama’s gaze followed my pointed finger. She tilted her head and gave a thoughtful, “Hmmm…”
As we got closer to our destination, the crowd in the train started clearing out. Papa, Mama, and I managed to grab a four-seater, and I had an empty seat next to me. “May I sit?” an extra polite voice asked. I looked up to see a tall, well-built man with chestnut colored skin, ruffled black hair and shocking, but cheerful green eyes. The staring man was in front of me!
“I…yeah…of course’ I replied, taken aback. The man’s eyes crinkled in amusement but he kept quiet. As he settled down, I saw he had wrinkles, but something made me feel that rather than old age, they were from experience.
For a while we traveled in silence, Mama, a very busy woman, was tapping away at her mobile, probably sending 1000 emails per minute; Papa was reading a book, my neighbor and I sat silently.
“Autumn!” Papa’s voice disrupted my thoughts. “Autumn, see this, isn’t it gorgeous?” he handed his book, a short hardcover, to me. “Turn to page 139” he said. I started flipping through the pages but stopped at 67, for there was a beautiful picture of a young girl, with a dangly earring looking at me. I stroked the picture. “What are trying to say?” I asked the girl in the picture softly, but continued turning the pages, until I arrived at 139. The book, I discovered, was one of paintings. Page 139 hosted Mona Lisa. Under the image was a small description of the painting and artist. I read the text, and looked at Papa, whose blue eyes were gleaming.
“I’ve seen this picture a lot of times, on all kinds of objects” I informed him. “Autumn! Yes, but isn’t it marvelous?” Papa asked eagerly, and took the book from my hand. I shrugged, “Looks the same” I replied. “Pshaw!” my father threw my opinion aside. I heard a chuckle from my neighbor, but he said nothing.
“You don’t see the beauty” Papa sighed. It was true; I didn’t care for art in the least, yet the girl on page 67 had somehow reached out to me…“Papa, wait!” I grabbed the book, and shuffled to page 67, “She’s amazing!” I declared. “Ah, yes…The girl with a pearl earring…Vermeer…It’s a classic.” he admired the artwork.
Papa turned to our neighbor, “And you? Do you enjoy art?” The man responded readily, “Oh yes, I’m a painter, but not by profession.” Papa applauded, “Lovely!” he exclaimed.
Through more probing we found out that the man’s name was John Creswell, and he was an engineer by profession. He was new to the city, and stayed with his family in a guest house. He used the Metro to get to his work and back.
Papa and I used the Metro to get to his job and my school. Due to our overlapping timings, we saw a lot of John. And we slowly became good friends.
Once, on my request, John brought a small oil-painting of his. It was a spring scene and it was simply gorgeous. I saw his true talent.
John was a good observer, and kept bringing Papa and me small tales and events that he used to see, or be a part of. It wasn’t until a particularly bright winter day, however, when things finally changed.
It was Friday. Papa and I met John on our way back home. John stood straighter and taller, and his eyes sparkled more that day. “I quit my job!” he exclaimed, “After a chat with a friend, I decided it was for the better. I’m going to have my own art studio and attend Art College.”
Papa smiled.
“I also plan to move from the guest house, though I don’t know where to. I need a peaceful place” the artist informed us.
“Are you thinking of an apartment or house?” Papa inquired.
“I want to buy a house” John replied. “Any suggestions?”
Papa gazed out the Metro window thoughtfully, while I tried to recall all serene neighborhoods that I could. Then it came to me, “How about Evergreen?” I asked, “The houses are really cozy, safe, and pretty large, and it’s in the suburbs with lots of greenery.”
Papa nodded, “Any empty houses?”
“Well, Kaylie’s neighbor moved out a week ago, and Brianna moved out a month ago, I think the house is still empty.” I told them.
“I know some brokers.” Papa said and whipped out his mobile, and started tapping in numbers. After a few calls he nodded, “It’s all set.” John didn't even get a chance to resist.
For the next few weeks, Papa and John went around with a few people, and though I couldn’t go along, Papa kept me informed. One day, he came in with happy news, “John’s bought Brianna’s old house!’
After settling down, John invited our family to his house, which was a beauty. We got to meet his gracious wife, Laila, his cute kids (7 year-old twins) Delia and Austin, and his gentle giant of a dog, Max. He showed us around his art studio, which was on the 2nd floor of the house. A huge room. From paintings of famous artists to quotes to art supplies, it seemed to have everything!
The one and major downside of the move, was that we wouldn’t be able to meet John on the Metro anymore. His college was on another line, and his art studio was at home. However, we managed to catch him once for a few minutes, when he thanked us all immensely.
It was the last time I ever saw him.
************************************************************************
‘World renowned artist breathes his last.’
The big, black letters stared at me, as I settled down for breakfast one morning. I drank my orange juice and blinked sleepily.
Years had gone by since I had last seen John. I was now married and had a three-year old daughter of my own, Lucie.
“That’s sad” my husband David remarked as he peered over my shoulder at the bold headline. He picked up the newspaper and read aloud, “John Creswell, 86, passed away yesterday due to a cardiac arrest. The artist, who had been staying at Seeker’s hotel during a tour, was rushed to Palls Hospital at 5:30 pm, he died 2½ hours later. Creswell, who is considered as one of the greatest artists of the 21st century, is known for his works like Fast Friends, Ball Gown, Lullaby, and others. He is known for his unique style and brush technique….."
But I didn’t hear the rest. John? One of the greatest artists? Why not?
The depressing truth was, the moment John had walked away from that Metro door so many years back, so did any love or interest I had ever had for art.
Life had gone back to normal with its quiet Metro rides.
The thought could be considered sad, and it was, but my focus went on to my friends and school. I prepared hard, did well, and I was successful. I was an engineer, the job John had never wanted.
“Honey, what about it?” David’s voice disrupted my thoughts.
“Sorry, what did you say?” I asked.
“There’s a John Creswell exhibition in Rainview Hall at 6:30 on Friday. I could book tickets online.” David listed out the details.
I checked my own calendar, “Fine. I’m free on Friday after 5:30.” I confirmed.
I heard a pitter-patter of steps, follower by a squeal, “Daddy! Good morning!”
“Cupcake!” David called, held out his arms, and in rushed Lucie.
I watched fondly as they tickled, hugged and cuddled each other.
“Cupcake, 6:30, on Friday evening, we’re going to go to an art exhibition.”
Lucie frowned. “Art ebiski-zibi-what?!”
David chuckled, “Exhibition. It means we get to see works of a great artist.”
“An artist. That’s what I’ll be!” Lucie declared.
David ruffled her hair, “Yes! Of course!”
Lucie had acquired an interest and love for art that neither David nor I had.
The next day, David came to me and told me that the tickets had been booked. Friday evening arrived very fast.
Before I knew it, the three of us were standing in a long but fast-moving line out side Rainview Hall. Soon enough a lady was collecting our velvety-red tickets. “Hope you enjoy!” she chirped.
Then we entered the hall. I had never seen Rainview, which hosted several exhibitions, as filled, with people or paintings.
Hoards of people crowded around the artworks, so we moved to a less congested area.
We first saw Fast Friends. It was a water-colour of seven pals, running towards a fast-food restaurant. It was raining in the background and the seven were running over a cobbled road. I smiled at John’s quirky sense of humor.The three women and four guys all looked different, and when I leaned closer I saw a man with Papa’s round, blue eyes. Coincidence, or not, I wasn’t sure.
We then moved onto Ball Gown.
Here, the theme was a romantic dance, and the main couple shone in the spotlight. I thought I saw Laila and John in them. The lady, wearing a silky purple gown, had Mrs. Creswell’s silky brown hair, and the tuxedo-laden man had the artist’s jade-green eyes. The lady was falling back into a graceful swoon, and the man’s hand supported her. There were other couples in the background, and I believed one looked like Mama and Papa dancing, though I couldn’t be too sure.
Apart from these two, only three other paintings were on really large canvases.
The third was called Max, and was Lucie’s clear favorite. As I expected, it was a beautifully done portrait of the Creswell’s adorable black lab.“I like him, can I get a dog like him?” Lucie asked. David ruffled her hair and smiled, “Maybe Cupcake, I want one too.”
The fourth painting was titled ‘Welcome home, visitor’, and was a gorgeous oil painting of a butterfly on a large lavender orchid that grew in the artist’s garden. “Wow” David said as he stared at the magnificent wings of the creature.
The last of the large canvases was supposedly John’s best, but was continuously being mobbed by viewers and fans, blocking it from our view. Lucie kept insisting on seeing it, and I too wanted to, so finally around 8:00 o’clock, when the crowds had started to depart, we squeezed through to get a glance at the painting. I held onto Lucie, and the three of us made our way to the front.
David, already next to me, stared at the painting, “Honey…”
I got a good look at the painting and dropped my bag in shock…
The setting was a train, a Metro to be precise. I recognized the wide windows, powerful doors, and the colorful seats of my day.
One seat, at the edge of the canvas, bore a sky-blue bag, the same that John had observed, oh so long ago. I could almost feel the folds of the fabric, as if it were actually there.
Nobody but a tall, lean, girl was in sight.
There was a silver pole off the center of the painting, and one of the girl's slim arms was circling it.
The girl had her head gently rested against the pole. Locks of wavy light brown hair, illuminated by rays of sunlight that was pouring in from a window behind her, fell on the girl’s shoulder. Some of her hair covered her face, but two almond-shaped amber eyes were visible, and they gazed downwards. The girl had fair skin, a slender nose, and a small mouth, which was gently closed. Her other arm hung loosely at her side, and her knees were slightly bent.
I could see the effort John had put in. Through neat brush strokes he got the whole picture, especially the fabric, to come alive. I could nearly feel the softness of the girl’s cotton top, and coziness of her well-worn jeans.
The startling thing was that I knew the girl. I used to see her when I looked at myself in the mirror in my school days. She was there in all my childhood photos. And here she was again. Waves of nostalgia hit me so hard, I nearly stumbled.
David put a hand on my shoulder, “Look at the name of the painting, honey.”
I looked up to see John’s bold, but loopy letters form a touching title.
A friend in the speed.
BY: Priya Saraff
