The Painting (Short Story)

I hit him across his innocent, rosy face and within a second, the eyes that were glittering with excitement were shining with tears. I spent another hour telling him how worthless he was in my eyes and that he would never mount to anything in life. I made it abundantly clear that he was a disgrace to his parents who were naive enough to spend money on his education. He left my room with a heavy heart, and tears dripping on his cheeks like a waterfall, that finds a new direction after breaking some rock. I knew that what broke were his dreams. His only sin was to ask me if he could sketch a painting placed in my office because he loved to draw and sketch. He told me that he had always admired that painting a lot. He also told me that he wanted to become an artist someday. That was enough to set me off. And I did it for his own good. After all, I was his teacher and it was my responsibility to make my students practical. I was allowed to employ any means to do that. Since ancient times, teachers in the sub-continent have tortured their students so that life may not torture them and I was to carry that tradition of affronting students both verbally and physically, so that they may learn the stark realities of life beforehand.

I was busy justifying myself when my eyes fell on that painting. People who visited my office often praised that painting. It portrayed a secluded grassland, surrounded by mountains with a tree in the middle. There was a white-painted bench under that tree with a table in front. People said that that landscape gave them the impression of unbounded serenity and peace; something that was in direct conflict with the heated and loud discussions that were carried out here. I was so accustomed to berating people that they often thought that this painting ought to be a misfit in my office. How could someone, who could not resist even a little bit of criticism or creativity or anything out of the box buy such a piece of art which was clearly very expensive.



Of course I didn't buy it. I created it.



I still remember the time I painted that landscape. Those hours just went by like a boat that is carried by the waves towards its perfect destination without having to change the sails all the time. It was so effortless, so natural to hold a brush and interact with the canvas in the company of colors. Someone once asked me the reasons as to why I wanted to paint?’ ‘Well,’ I said with a smirk ‘you don’t ask why someone wants to breathe, right? ‘

It was a fairly convincing reason for me, but that kind of reasoning was unable to convince my father who needed to see tangible and instant benefits for doing anything.

From a very early age, he tried to incorporate within my mind that my world should be restricted to the books taught at the school and the Holy Book taught at the madrassa. Anything beyond that was sacrificing the prospect of a bright future by wasting time today. His firm belief was that there should be visible and instant benefits for doing anything and if that was not the case, it was not worth pursuing. He applied that principle in every area of his life; from his family and friends to his work place. He stopped me from playing any kind of sports or participating in any extra-curricular activity because he thought that such activities diverted my attention from education. I hated those restrictions placed upon me because I wanted to excel, to explore the world around me and to connect with that world. But I couldn’t voice my desires. Because for him, that was disobedience and he didn’t like it at all. If anything went against his will, he resorted to violence; both physically and verbally. And he didn’t stop there. He would call me in front of his friends (who were obviously like him) and would spend quite some time telling them how worthless and ungrateful I was. His friends would join in too, and every second spent there was filled with examples narrating the misfortunes of people who disobeyed their parents like that. After every such session, I could not sleep at night for those words echoed in my head and didn’t let go of me. So whenever I ventured to do anything other than what I was supposed to do, that stream of events of humiliation flashed through my mind and I instantly stopped, thinking of the sleepless nights I had to endure because of that.

I remember the time when I first laid my hands on a paint brush. I was in 6th grade and there was a compulsory drawing course which included painting. When I told my father that I needed some bottles of paint and a brush for that class, he instantly became furious and told me to do without it. So I attended that class without having any sort of equipment. The teacher took me to the principal and narrated the whole problem. The principal called my parents and talked about how they were constantly ignoring the needs of their child. I was standing nearby and I could see the expressions on my father’s face. I desperately wanted the Principal to stop right there but he carried on for quite some time, commenting on my uniform that was patched and boots that bore more stitches than leather.

I don’t want to go in details of what happened when we returned home. Long story short, I got bruises all over my body, a swollen eye and a few bottles of paint along with a brush. It was worth it.

The next day, the teacher asked me to have additional classes with her because I had missed quite a lot and needed to cover the syllabus in order to pass. The first thing I was asked to draw was a plant. The minute I started sketching the outline, I felt a certain jolt of excitement that I had long forgotten. I became so immersed in that work that my teacher had to clap in front of me to have my attention. ‘Time’s up, little champ’ she said, smiling, ‘And wow, that is amazing. I can’t believe that you did it.’ That sketch was displayed as the best class work.

I returned home, excited beyond measure, bursting to tell my tale. I told my father about it who remained impassive at first. I was called to his room later that night and he made it very clear that he had no interest whatsoever in either I excelled in that class or not and that I ought not to indulge too much in such activities. He also told me that he won’t buy me any new paint bottles for the rest of the year, so I had better be careful about how I used my supplies. But all of those warnings didn’t matter to me. I just told him that I would be having extra classes after school because I had missed a lot of stuff. With a grunt, he told me that he had no problem with that.

I couldn’t sleep that night too. But for the first time in my life, it was because of excitement and not of endless thoughts of being humiliated in the near past.

The next day, I again excelled in that drawing class. In the extra class, the teacher asked me to do something different. She told me to paint whatever I wanted to. I told her about the restraint I had on my resources. She lifted a piece of cardboard placed on a table beside me; a tray of paint bottles were on that table. ‘Do whatever you want with whatever is on that table and in your hands’ she smiled.



The afternoon that followed was the best time I had ever spent.



I started painting, despite everything that was piled up against that passion by my father. That teacher encouraged me a lot, seeing within me as someone who could really excel in that field. She lent me her room and some resources to do that. I was euphoric and really thought that I could break free of those chains that bound me, those that were imposed upon me since I was borne, the chains I felt were around for generations. I really thought that with every stroke of brush, I was making those chains weak.



Until one day, the chains I thought I had weakened with my brush strokes fell on me with all their might and all of this got lost; once and for all.



I used to hide my paintings in the store room. One day, while looking for his old office documents, my father discovered them. I was in high school back then and was hoping against hope that my father would allow me to take admission in an arts college. When I returned home that day, there were a lot of people sitting in the drawing room; his friends along with some family members but the moment I saw all my paintings staked in the middle of the room like a pile of skins of some slaughtered animals, my heart skipped a beat.

That afternoon, he shouted at me everything a father should never say to his son, no human being should ever say to another. He told me that I was a thief and a traitor. That I stole his money and time and expectations and abused them. That I was an ultimate disgrace to him and the whole family because I didn’t obey them. As if that wasn’t enough, he started hitting me in front of all those people sitting around. I always thought that being hit in front of a lot of people would be the ultimate pain.

The thing that happened next actually was.

He burned all those paintings that day in front of everyone else in that room and told me that if he ever found me near a canvas and a brush, I might as well leave the house.

I saw all those colors burn alongside the only moments of joy I ever had. I found out how cheap and worthless were they after all, both the colors and those moments. That ultimate humiliation of those colors and moments and the subsequent pain ensured that I never even touched a brush for quite some time.

Many years after that incident, when I became a teacher and was on my own, I tried to paint again. The moment I picked that brush, that drawing room, those people ,that hitting, those words, that pile, that fire and those colors flashed like a night mare and for the first time in my life, I couldn't manage to put anything on the canvas. I stared at the canvas with my hands shivering, unable to extend the brush to the bottle of paint and then again to the canvas.



I guess it all got lost in that drawing room, among those people, and in that fire.



I heard about the death of that teacher who first encouraged me to draw. I thought that I had better go and condole with the family of the departed. When I got there, her eldest son handed me a package and told me that her mother had asked him specifically to give it to me. I opened it and there was this painting I had long forgotten about, something I painted for a competition but had left it there for her consideration. I touched the canvas and my skin was met with the uneven layers of paint. The faint tint of the lost joys was still there. I didn’t know what to do with it. It reminded me of something I was, that got lost.



I decided to place it in my office, so that it may witness the pain and humiliation it caused me getting transferred ahead, the cycle continuing. The chains were still intact, stronger than ever, and I was strengthening them even further.

'The third resource being the lemons

So I was at  All Pakistan Intercollegiate Convention for Story Writers held at KEMU Lahore. There was a panel discussion comprising of popular Pakistani writers such as Musharruf Ali Farouqi and Tanzeela Shah.Scribed a few notes and thought I had share them with all the aspiring writers out there.

'There are two resources you need to write a story. These are your hands and your mind that is your imagination. Luckily, I had a third resource too. LEMONS! So what do you do when life hands you over with lemons? You make lemonades! And I created stories. So with my hands,my imagination and the third resource being the lemons, I became a short story writer!' were the words of Tanzila Khan, when asked how did she become a writer.

When asked for advice for the short story writers,another panel member Musharuf Ali Farouqi said that reading is an absolute essential for that process.The more you read,the more confident you become in your expression because you have the exposure to say what you want.He also advised to read twice a book you admire because you are likely to find new grounds.He shared his experience of writing a novel in which he sketched out all the characters of his novel and then found out that there existed connections between them.His strong advice was to study classics of multiple languages and to try translating them.Become aware of the major themes and try connecting them with what you already know of your own language.

And his last message was that write what's near to your heart and what completes you as a person.Write for the sake of writing!

The Answer (Short Story)

I saw him sitting near a rail way track.A young man,no more than 20 years old,wearing a ragged jeans and a worn out T shirt.Being a psychiatrist I inferred from his body patterns that he was impatient and nervous,waiting for some thing.A farther observation of his eyes was enough to tell me the whole story.His eyes were red and tired but determined."Let's do this,once and for all,and finish the pain."they seemed to say.I always cursed myself for reading too much about a person just by looking at him and being very sensitive,I always felt moved and tried to help.So I sat down near him.He looked at me and opened his mouth to speak something but decided not to.And this further confirmed my hypothesis.It was a lazy October afternoon,a cool breeze blowing and we were all alone.

"So,"I said,"this is how it ends,eh?"

He looked at me with dazzled eyes.I sensed he was thinking about lying but quickly abandoned the thought.

"Yeah,it does"He replied with a some what shaky voice.

I sighed."Why am I always right about people?"I secretly complained."But you know,the train is not due for another five hours,there is some demonstration going on by the railway employees regarding their salaries and they have blocked the railway track""

"WHAT THE F**k."He yelled"can they get any thing right in this country?"

I laughed silently.A person who was planning to leave the world was still so consumed about how bad his country was governed.

"I'll make you an offer.You come with me and we will make your last hours as pleasant as possible"

"No thank you Mister,I think I'll just sit here and wait"

"Really?You mean you want to spend the last five hours of your life,thinking about the things that are forcing you to finish it?"

And a smile crept on his face.

"Some psycho dude you are man,but you have got a point.But there is no way you can convince me not to finish my life"

"Challenge Accepted"I tried to sound like Barney.

This time,he actually laughed,

"Another "How I Met Your Mother" Fan,eh?"

And this made me laugh too.

And we headed towards my car and set off to the city.

For the next few minutes,there was complete silence.

"So,why are you doing this?"He asked in a somewhat stable voice.

"Doing what?"I answered absentmindedly.

"Trying to save my life?"

"I don't know"I honestly answered.

Silence fell again."And why are you doing this,finishing your life so early?"I asked after a few minutes.

He didn't immediately answer that.I saw his eyes gazing in to the horizon,where there were a few random clouds.I knew that a whole film of events,circumstances and people rolled before his eyes and the pain was resurfacing.

"You won't understand". He said with a forced heavy voice.

"Come on,"I retorted back,"I am a psychiatrist."

"I not telling any thing no matter what"He fired back.

"Suit your self" I calmly replied.He was taken aback by my words but then choose to change the topic.

"So,"He picked up my visiting card from the dash-board,"You did medicine and are a gold medalist,studied psychiatry at Harvard on scholarship?Wow.Pretty amazing,bro.Is there some damn thing missing from from your life?."He sighed.

And I could not help smiling.

"Whats so funny?"He asked.

"Nothing,I remembered an old joke."

"Wanna share it?"

I looked at him."Nah,unless you want to share why you are planning to end your life."

And then the silence fell again,until we reached a hotel and had a late lunch.

"You know"I started,"It is said that the darkest hour of the night comes just before the Dawn.Its only after you have lost every thing that you are free to do any thing"

"The Alchemist and Fight Club"

"What?"I was caught off the hook.

"You quoted from those two books.Seriously,I expected better from you,Mr Harvard "He smirked.

"BTW can I quote some thing from your Paulo Coelho?"

"Sure?"

"He felt the urge to tell him that those beautiful words meant nothing when one faces suffering',I guess the book was The Fifth Mountain"

I was truly amazed.I tried again.

"Well,only you decide in your life if this is the end or the beginning.If you can laugh when you are completely broke,there can be nothing that can break you next time.Now I don't know what really happened,but you have got the choice,of making that failure a stepping stone,rather than a tombstone"

He looked at me impassively.Boy,those cold,dark eyes,they gave me a shiver.

"I prefer the tombstone."He replied coldly.

" What's so fascinating about death?"I asked.

"Numbness and freedom,there is no tomorrow,there is no yesterday,there is nothing to be afraid of,no fears,no pain,no nothing"

"But then you have nothing to look forward to?"I retorted.

"And I really look forward to that,"he retorted back

I banged my head for another two hours but of no result.He didn't tell me any thing and he refused to abandon his ambition of going to the other world so soon.He constantly rambled on and on about how perfect my life was and how I had every thing.How people like me didn't knew what it means to fail and get your heart broken.How all the chicks are dying to get me and how I had everything so easy in my life.People like me,he said,can't ever get what we the wrecks feel..

"You see,it's easy for you to give motivational lectures,when you have every damn thing life has to offer.But when you have nothing,absolutely nothing to cling to,when your academic records suck,when the people around tell you how a worthless piece of shit you are,then those beautiful "When a person wishes to do some thing,the whole universe conspires to make it true" don't make any shitty sense."

"Is that your problem,dysfunctional family and difficulty at academics"I tried to find some thing tangible.

"This?its only a FRACTION of the problem,and I am not telling you the problem"

"Ok then,let's go."I resigned.

We left the hotel and all the way back there was silence.

We reached the barren place around the railway track.It was starting to get dark,and then all of a sudden it started raining.

"Looks like they have been tipped off that I am dying,and having no one to mourn over my death,they have decided to at least do the formality."He joked.

"Who are the 'they'?"I curiously asked.

"I don't know.Those waiting up on the sky may be?"

We stood there in silence.And then I heard the distant whistle of the train.

"You want to be the witness?"He asked

I murmured a yeah.

"Ok,so umm,no hard feelings right? you tried your best,and I thank you for that.But I think I had better free the Earth of a useless piece of shit"

You think so?

"Yeah."

We saw the train approaching.It was barely a hundred yards away.

"Bye then,Have a great life,and you lost your challenge and I won"He said rather triumphantly.

He dived on to the railway track.

Fifty yards.

I pulled him back and laid down on the track instead.

Before dying,I had a chance to look at him in the eyes.There was horror and shock.Yes,I too went there to end my life;a fake,empty life I was fed up with,but then,my life would have ended on a failure,the theme song of my life.But I defied that,and my life ended on a high.I saved a life by showing him that money,fame,degree,career is not the answer and can never be.And even before I died,I knew,I just knew,that he will find the answer and will live on.

The Answer That I Failed To Find...