A Splash of Red

           Radhika walked down the Champs-Élysées. Her dream had come true. Paris. Finally. Years of hard work had fructified. Years of slogging off in her room had finally paid off. She would now study at the Sorbonne. Beneath the roofs of the premier university for Art. In the centre of the world.

            She breathed in again. Paris. The air itself intoxicated her. Filled with the sweet smells of the gateaux. And the white powder the mimes put on their faces. Oil paints. Perfumes. Leather from the shops of the haute-couturiers. Wine. Cigarettes. Her head was giddy. Tomorrow would be her first class. Madame de Cartier had specially selected her for the Monet Foundation’s scholarship. She was going to make her mentor and her parents proud. Her paintings of Akola would then be auctioned off at Christie’s.

            Walking down the avenue she saw a young artist painting a café. The brushwork could be more uniform she thought. For fuck’s sake! Stop acting like an expert. You are a student.

Saying a word or two of encouragement, she walked on. The Sun was dipping and the entire street held its breath. At that exact moment, the streetlights flickered. The City of Lights had come to life. Sigh. Paris.

Every struggle against getting into Science. Every compromise against getting into Commerce. Every fight against attempting UPSC. Every argument against paying for the application. Every tear shed to pay for the visa. All were worth even the faintest glow of the Elysian Fields.

I will paint my first café – there. My first night scene – here. Her steps and her dreams echoed. The trees shivered in the cool breeze. I will be triumphant. I will have my own arch. The Champs-Élysées was her road to the jubilant future.

Couples kissing. If only Sumedh was here with her. But he understood. Her dreams had light. His Agriculture Degree was a necessity. Her Art transcended necessity. He had promised to wait. He would. She trusted him. The entwined hands made a nice silhouette against the dipping sun. She would include it in her first Human Study. Perhaps charcoal. No. The light needed to be emphasized. Only bright colours; to highlight the negative space their kiss would create. Love. Paris.

Her heels – her first – also her first purchase here – clacked. The trance was hard to shake off. It seemed to be contagious. Paris struck her. And it seemed whomever she saw, Paris struck them too. The gowns, the haughtiness, the joie de vivre, the splashes of dynamism in every gesture that she could capture with a single line, a single curve, a single brushstroke. The dynamism of the train from Akola to Pune. Convincing the University. The Shivneri to Mumbai. Again and again. And again. Funding. Scholarship. Visa. The Cultural Centre. The Madame. Post-courier-mail-scan. The scholarship eluded her. But not her faith. She was tired. Her ankles were sore. The heels were new. But the fatigue in pursuit of her dreams was not.

Or was it her mother’s faith? She fasted. She prayed. She sacrificed. But finally her uncle called from Mumbai. Madame de Cartier had accepted her.

She was going to Paris!

And she did. Every rupee her father had collected in his sweaty shirt, which he wringed at the office of her English-medium school had paid off. French came to her naturally. Less scoring than Sanskrit, but whenever she opened Apprendez Le Français, her fingers painted the translations instead of penning them. The distance learning course from Pune University was difficult but she managed. She had to. And as she stepped into the chilly morning outside the Charles de Gaulle Airport, she knew she had.

The bustling bicycles, beautiful blonde-haired figures, the Algerians with their French blackness, the gendarme and the gaggle of tourists from Japan with their cameras. Radhika’s eyes scanned the surroundings, gulping in the sights. Ochre, carmine and burgundy for the roofs. Mauve, violet, purple? Perhaps indigo with a tinge of cyan for the sky? But definitely the olive-green for the trees that lined the avenue.

Just a year, and she would be starting her own gallery in Akola. Loan a Gaitonde? Perhaps a tribute to Sher-Gil. But will her family, friends and Akola understand this Art? I will have to explain. Good that I have a minor in Art Theory.

The scent of the blossoms from the Jardin enveloped her. White will be the blossoms. And I will tower over Akola like the Obelisk in Concorde. I will be the pride, and I will be proud. Like a peacock. Brightly coloured. The background would be red. And she would be gold. I will recreate Paradise in my gallery! Her stilettos clacked against the pavement.

Oh! There’s Jean-Pierre! He was kind enough to help me with the suitcases yesterday. Jean-Pierre! She shouted across the street. But he barely heard her. She looked left as she crossed the street. The car coming from the right didn’t even have a chance to honk. Her background was red.