As the river flows

Inevitability (Noun) - The quality of being certain to happen. Perhaps it was inevitable that things would turn out like it did, in the end. Like a river must run its course and inevitably flow into the ocean, colouring it with the essences of the lives it touches, maybe, falling in love and being a fool for it, is inevitable. Unavoidable. Certain.  One does not plan for it, but it creeps up on you, and settles quietly and patiently in a corner of your being, till one fine day you wake up and you have changed, ever so subtly but irrevocably. Ankit Verma was a genius- a veritable artistic prodigy. It was there in the way his brush moved and glided across the canvas. In the way the pigments seemed to be thrumming with a thousand unspoken words. In the way one line leaped over the other in a clamorous bid for attention, like they were barely holding themselves together, like their lives could not be contained by the meager canvas on which they had taken residence. But in the end, what lingered back in the minds of the audience was never the paintings themselves. It was the man. Watching him paint was like watching someone dying and being born again, full of pain and wonder. It was like being privy to his soul, as he laid it bare for everyone to see, to touch and feel, and to take away to keep for themselves to caress and hold during lazy mornings and sleepless nights. Perhaps it was the raw honesty in the frantic movements of his hands, as he sat under the spotlight, which informed Anais Bridel of his potential as an artist, but it was the dazzling smile and full bodied laughter that burst out of the man at the end of his segment, that convinced her to linger back and approach him. Bridel had not expected her night to end this way. When her friend Feroze had told her about the brilliant young artist in her foundation, who would be doing a showing that night, she had been skeptical at best. To be honest, that really was her natural disposition. In fact, she took great pride in her skepticism and general aversion to mediocrity. It was what made her a great curator, if she may say so herself. When one was one of the top curators in the Palais de Tokyo, a lot of pandering and kowtowing was not just expected, but a way of life. It had initially been hard to get used to, but now, after almost thirty-five years of working in the field, not only did it not fluster her, it had started to tire her. Therefore, her greatest expectation from the night were the delicious hors d'oeuvres that were sure to be served at the event, if she knew Feroze well, after all these years. As she had readied herself that evening, she had thought about all the time that she had spent in her pursuit of a brilliant mind, someone to bring her a sense of calm and peace. Sometimes she had come close to achieving that, but something was always off. Perhaps she expected too much. Maybe, that was the problem. Perhaps she should lower her expectations. Perhaps her purpose in life was simply to appreciate what the world had to offer, instead of actively trying to shape it into what she believed it could be. She had looked at herself in the mirror and the fine wrinkles that lined her face and had thought back on the time when she was barely twenty-one, fresh out of art school, full of zest and the burning desire to take the art world by storm. But life had taken her down a different path and now she found herself one of the very people she had once loathed – a jaded gatekeeper of the art world. But, ‘C’est la vie’, you know. It is what it is. And as she had donned the pink pastel piece of cloth around her neck (Feroze had called it ‘dupatta’, had she not?), in honour of being in India for the first time for her holidays, she had hoped for some respite from her own self. Therefore, when Feroze had coming knocking on her door, Bridel had been more than ready to go see the strapping new artist that Feroze had gushed about the entire day.   Now, as she waited in one of the dark corners of the room, watching the light shine down on the young man’s animated face, her heart fluttered and there was such a hope building in her, blinding her with its brilliance. She knew what she had to do. She watched as he spoke to the other guests, dropping a charming smile here, a shy nod there, and she was riveted. As he moved off the podium, she finally had an opportunity to look at the large, brightly coloured canvas that stood tall and proud in the middle of the podium. She itched to go near and touch it. The reds, the blues, whites and blacks, seemed to be stuck in a battle with their own selves with no end in sight. They spoke of a pain that had not been healed. She wondered what the pain could be. What could they possibly be so deeply entrenched by? She found herself walking forward and standing merely a breath away from the canvas. As she peered down, she could see the masterful layering of colours and once again, she felt breathless. This was everything she had always been looking for, she supposed. Honesty. “Do you like it?” Bridel startled and turned around, and there he stood. The man of the hour. Ankit Verma. He had the sort of smile on his face, as if he knew that she did indeed like it, and was challenging her to say otherwise. The audacity! And for a second, she could not deny, she was indeed tempted to take up that challenge and leave him in the dust. But then she reined that feeling in. She was not a child. She was a woman in her fifties. She was above that. So she straightened up, and gave him a sharp nod. “Indeed, I did, monsieur. I must congratulate you. You were a vision tonight.” She shifted the champagne glass to her left hand and extended her right, so that he may shake it. For a second his smile wavered, and then fell into something more genuine. He extended his hand and shook hers with a firm grip. “Feroze told me it would be harder than this,” he said, as he retracted his hand and scratched nervously at the back of his head. “What? Getting me to like your work, or getting the compliment?” “Both, I suppose,” he laughed,” She had me convinced that you were basically a fire-breathing dragon. Too patrician to give any of us the time of day. I hope it is not too premature to say this.” Bridel chuckled at his boldness, and gestured that they move off the podium and to a more comfortably lit part of the room. As they made their way through to a table near the exit door, they were stopped numerous times by the adoring crowd wanting to congratulate him and hold his hand, even if for a moment. She understood the sentiment. Rarely did people come across such undeniable potential. And when they did, the desire to bottle it up and own it, simmered just below the surface. In many ways, she pondered, that was exactly her job. Curate and collect talent. As they reached the table, Ankit very graciously offered to get her a new drink, but she shook her head and instead reached out her hand and signaled Feroze to come over. From the corner of her eyes, Bridel saw Ankit’s eyebrows furrow in confusion for just a second, till he seemingly decided to just go with the flow. They waited quietly as Feroze excused herself and made her way over to their table. “I see you’ve already met,” she said with a smile and leaned in to kiss Bridel briefly on the cheeks, and hug Ankit. “So, what do you think? Is he not everything I told you he would be, Anais? Isn’t he just brilliant?” she gushed. Ankit shook his head in protest, but they both brushed it off. “He is, he is,” agreed Bridel amicably, “a cheeky bastard at that! He called me a dragon! Says you’ve been bad-mouthing me.” “No, I…” tried Ankit, but both women seemed to not care about that in the slightest. “Has he now? What a sly fox. Betraying me in front of my friend.” Ankit made a small noise of protest. “Indeed. Shall I help you out and take him off your hands, Feroze?” “What do you get out of it, then? I have to be fair, of course,” Feroze said while looking at her nails, “I am a generous woman. It cannot simply be a deal that benefits me. So Bridel, tell me, how is this a fair exchange?” “What a giving soul! Such overflowing concern for what is fair and just. You bring tears to my eyes.” Both women giggled softly. “What do I get in return, you ask? I get everything! The fame, the money and the one thing I have been so relentlessly pursuing my entire career- a brilliant mind! It seems that in this deal, you are the one that has drawn the shorter stick. But, unlike you, dear Feroze, my heart is a colder place and I cannot be so unsparing. I insist on having this boy.” Bridel pointed at Ankit, as he looked on with a slight frown marring his handsome features. Feroze clapped her hands in joy, and pulling Ankit close to her by the arm, she said, “I am a gracious host, darling. So here, you can have him.” And she lightly shoved him towards Bridel. They were both saved from falling down by Ankit’s quick reflexes as he caught himself at the edge of the table. He looked back at Feroze in utter confusion. What on earth was going on here? Had Feroze really lost her mind? There could be no other explanation for such preposterous behavior. He was left even more confused, when she squealed and hugged him to her chest, rocking them back and forth. He patted her gingerly on the back, since his arms were held captive under the vice like grip that she had on him. “Congratulations, darling. I am so proud of you!” she whispered in his ears. “Thanks?” he started uncertainly, “but, maybe, you can tell me what this is about first?” “Oh, darling, don’t you remember? I told you about…” “Why don’t you let me take over?” interrupted Bridel. She bid Ankit to come closer. “You see, monsieur, I work for a very prestigious organization. It is called Palais de Tokyo. There are many perks to working there, money, respect, and in many ways fame, if you can call it that. But the best, you see, is what curators and collectors dreams of.” Ankit’s eyebrows raised at that. “The opportunity of finding, collecting and assuming a small part in the nurturing of potential. True potential to become a great artist. And when we do find such rare and wonderful talent, we are loath to let that go.” “Alright, so, what does that have to do with me?” He asked uncertainly. He could of course, take an educated guess, but he hardly wanted to presume. Don’t count your chicken before they hatch, they say. “Therefore, in keeping with what I have just said, I would very much like to take you under my proverbial wings,” she said dramatically, spreading her hands wide open “and sponsor you to take part in one of the most distinguished art residencies in the world- Pavillon Neuflize OBC- in Paris.” Ankit’s breath caught in his throat. He could hardly believe it. Surely such luck could not be his. His was a fate of struggle and living hand to mouth. Years and years of futility had taught him that. Surely, his ears were ringing, and he had misunderstood. He remembered when he was eighteen and fighting for what to loved, and his father’s cruel words. The memories of leaving home to pursue his dreams alone bubbled up viscously, wrapping around his throat and left him choking. The next moment he felt tender hands on him, holding him close and patting his hair, as he cried and cried into the undoubtedly expensive shirt that Feroze wore. As Feroze shushed him and held him close, he remembered being discovered by this woman. She had in all senses of the word changed his life. His life now was a far cry from the destitute living conditions he had found himself in after leaving home. It was Feroze that had got him through art school, paid for his life and given him a job once he graduated. And now this. How could he ever hope to repay her kindness? Surely his very life was indebted to her. “Thank you,” he whispered croakily in her ears. “Thank you so much.” “Oh, dear child. Please, no need. You have earned whatever you have received. I am a mere woman. I have no power. It has all been you.”Ankit clung harder to her, and she hugged him back, uncaring of the snot and gunk, both holding on to something precious.   Bridel watched the scene unfold with a certain quietude, knowing that this boy, here, was on the verge of the greatest journey of his life, and that once he had taken that first step towards the unknown, his life would never be the same again. And she suspected, neither would hers.