People have very surprising as well as curious natures. Each person is a mixture of many and variegated traits. The same person’s character may have greed, contempt, ferocity side by side with compassion, sympathy as well as empathy. All of these remain mixed; people are, in most cases, hardly entirely good or bad. But in those who have a strong character (a straight and strong backbone, so to speak) and who have developed a set of values, ideals will keep the negative traits under control. These are the people in whom decency prevails. Moreover, this is as true of people as it is of individuals. I have seen this in Delhi, in Calcutta and in Santiniketan. It is, in fact, true everywhere. Nevertheless, the nature of a particular place, the mentality and lifestyle of its residents, the economic and political conditions—all these contribute to the special character of the life and mentality of its people. To say nothing of the changes time brings about. When I first went to Delhi, what used to strike me was the sheer number of cycles on the road. They were the very symbol of movement. These days, the number of motorcycles and cars must have increased vastly. Speed has obviously gone up, but this fast-moving life allows less peace and relief while competition grows ever sharper. Yet the sheer speed of life gets rid of pettiness and inertness; the draw of the life force increases. Thus speed has made a special and positive contribution to Delhi life. It did even in those days. But the excessive cultivation of success and the placement of monetary success above all else means that there were obstacles to achieving a mature and profound philosophy of life in Delhi. That’s how it seemed to me, to us. That difficulty is now universal.
What would a true philosophy of life be like? Would it not be one that looks not just for success but also for fulfillment? Success is not the same thing as fulfilment. The message of fulfilment goes far deeper. People want to improve their lives, to look for pleasure, and to this end they work. The desire to enrich their life provides zeal and perseverance. The ingredients and objects of sensual pleasure are limited in nature, which is why the desire for such leads one into the world of severe competition. It is only by fighting tooth and nail that one gets the taste of victory. But does the conquest of success give one everything? For dissatisfaction and want exist in the midst of success and the joy of advancement. We cannot find completion or fulfilment through worldly success or consumption. Indeed, frequently enough that road becomes increasing convoluted. In the same way, worldly success and fulfilment are separate in both an artist’s work and life. Very large earnings, great fame and recognition do not necessarily bring an artist significance or aesthetic achievement. The achievement of aesthetic realization through unrelenting devotion to one’s art is a rare and almost quasi-divine experience. During the time I’m speaking of, worldly success was not only a rare commodity in artistic endeavour but its extent was far more limited, especially in West Bengal. Now it is much more widespread, indeed to a hitherto unimaginable degree. This is what, in my opinion, one saw to some degree in Delhi those days. Similarly, the great number and variety of work results in a positive lively aspect but also has a problematical side. I am firmly convinced though, that all this churning will give rise to wonders. The very fact that so many are working in so many different ways is itself a matter for rejoicing.
After five or six years in the city, we had become a part of Delhi life, working and remaking our lives through all the cut and thrust. I had in the meantime joined the St Thomas School, on a part-time basis, and was enjoying it. It seemed a full life, with work, with occasional time spent at my parents’, with visiting historical places around Delhi like Agra, Mathura, Rishikesh, and the odd solo show (once Somnath’s, once mine). Once we returned from a visit to Calcutta only to finish the remainder of our holiday in Shimla. I enjoyed it immensely and I lost a lot of weight going up and down the hills in those four or five days. A few days later I fell rather ill and it was only afterwards that I realized I was pregnant. By then I was 36 or 37 and Somnath was 41 or 42. Chandana came late, and I suffered because of my age. Ma insisted we stay with them, even though she was quite ill herself. Despite her condition, she would make all sorts of arrangements to make sure I was comfortable. I still find it difficult to believe how much care she took of me. God knows how she managed! My parents were very close to Justice Hidayatullah of the Supreme Court and his wife Pushpa—they shared a deep and abiding friendship. I realized how close they were and how fond they were of me during Chandana’s birth, when their support proved crucial. Severe complications arose but, in the end, Chandana was born without any surgical intervention (thanks to the skills of Dr Pathak and Ma’s constant care). This little infant, with her pink face, a head covered with black curls, two inquisitive bright eyes and an unending hunger, first kept Safdarjang Hospital, then my parent’s house (for the next week) and, finally, our new flat at Hauz Khas, agog.
When he learned that Chandana was due, Somnath located and rented the flat at Hauz Khas. Our previous flat at Kamla Nagar was more than adequate for our purposes but its one drawback was that not a beam of sunlight would enter. This made little difference to us, since our time was spent working, wandering about and staying out of doors. But a baby had different requirements: she needed the sun, especially during the Delhi winter. This house was absolutely perfect: two storeys, with a courtyard and a pocket-handkerchief-sized garden. The ground floor, with two large rooms, kitchen, etc., was ours. It had plenty of sunshine and fresh air and was in a nice secluded area. On one side was a wall from an earlier era, and peacocks would step down from it and come into our courtyard. Above us lived a Bengali couple. We became fast friends in a short while and would stand by one another at times of need. I remember hose days clearly. Chandana’s presence changed our lives; she was the centre of our universe. Her first requirements were food and sleep. Between nursing her, caring for her, as well as constantly keeping an eye on her, I did manage to save a few bits of time for my work. A well-wisher told me, ‘Forget about work for the time being.’ As it happens, this was not true in my case. The mixture of joy and love which occurs when one is holding one’s child and which occasionally spreads to other relationships as well, would seek release. In any case, weariness seems to decrease if I work. So even in the middle of a thousand chores I would find time to do some drawings or small paintings on the roof. And my child’s many excitements and abilities—one never knew what she would do next! So many amusing incidents! Through all this I still wanted to paint. With parenthood, another sort of experience came into our lives. Everyone who has been a parent at some time in their life will know what a different feeling this is. Chandana was an active, happy-go-lucky child. Her mother never had to worry unnecessarily about her. She would spend time on her own, drawing. And this would give me time as well. I’d be at sixes and sevens, however, if she fell ill. It’s difficult not to feel very distressed when such a frail tiny creature feels pain or discomfort. All rational thoughts cease at such moments. But even then there would be friends to stand by us so far from home. I’m not even thinking of my parents—they were our principal support. Apart from them, in times of distress, especially if Chandana fell ill, the Nanda family were always there to help look after her. Mrs Nanda—Leela—was particularly fond of Chandana. Many of the other neighbours, Bengali and non-Bengali, were also very supportive. It was as though by becoming parents we had got integrated into a larger community. Ma used to call it ‘passport’. And, in truth, Chandana was, in those days, our ‘passport’, both to other people and to the world of feelings.
This extract has been taken from the catalogue published on the event of Reba Hore’s current exhibition running at the Seagull Foundation for the Arts.
To view the exhibition online, click here >>>
Tweet This Post
