Blackmail

He was thinking. He was thinking hard as he took his daily evening stroll by the river that flowed through their city. The deal was quite clearly spelt out. If he wanted the break that he badly needed then he must sign the papers. Sign the papers and forfeit all that he had been fighting for since the last ten years.

The sky was slowly turning a crimson purple as the last sunrays lit up the murmuring waters of the river and the trees on the sloping grassy banks. The birds were returning to roost for the night and chirping amongst themselves. The evening star had already appeared in the fading daylight and was shining coolly down upon the world. But Nidal was still thinking about the offer he had received that afternoon. Nidal Muhammad was a painter who lived in the suburbs of Lucknow with his aged mother. He had been a child prodigy with an exceptional talent for painting and his father had encouraged him in his calling. After his schooling he had enrolled in the Lucknow College for Fine Arts but he had already started taking private lessons right from his early teens from a noted old painter who lived in the city. This painter who was called Hamid Sheikh had been a teacher and mentor to him and under his able guidance his inborn and natural skills with the brush and colors blossomed out. However, Hamid Sheikh was a painter who pursued painting for the sake of artistic pleasure and lived on the income from some ancestral properties. He never sought riches or fame and as a result in a world driven by advertisements and publicity, he was relatively less known.

Even after enrolling in the College, Nidal had continued learning from Hamid Sheikh until he passed away when he was about twenty. Two years later he graduated with distinction from his College and planned to start his own practice. However, the same year his father suddenly had a heart attack and died leaving the responsibilities of running the family to him. It was then that Nidal got acquainted with the tougher side of life. With his father suddenly gone, the daily bread had to be won and Nidal had to give up on his plans for starting his own studio. His father had been the head clerk in a local bank but Nidal had neither interest nor the requisite educational background for such a job. He kept painting, using the colors and canvases he already had and sold them in the open bazaar for just enough so as to cover his expenses on the raw materials and keep the family going. This way he was able to provide for his mother, two younger sisters and himself but he could not establish himself as a professional painter. Over the next five years, they first sold their house and moved to a smaller house in the Lucknow suburbs. With the money left from this transaction and with some of his own savings Nidal was able to marry both his sisters away into decent families. With that he was finally able to save both time and money to renew his aspirations to become a professional painter.

He started by fitting up his sisters’ room for a studio. He painstakingly saved over the next two years to buy all the things required… colors and pigment bases of good quality, various types of brushes, oils, easels, palettes and canvas sheets. He started painting seriously besides his regular stuff that he sold in the bazaar. He had his own little stall there now and a few contacts. Using his bazaar contacts and family acquaintances, he started inviting people to have their portraits painted. A few started coming to him and he charged them very nominally to encourage further business. Besides portraits he also painted landscapes, architectural details and from imagination. He produced masterpieces in abstract art. He created wonders with water colors. And most importantly, he did not sell these cheap in the bazaar but started building up his own collection. However, since successful art and show business requires a lot of initial publicity, he was handicapped. Even though he became known well enough to many in the middle strata of the society to keep his business going, yet he was still unknown to the rich patrons and the professional elite. He had no wealthy contacts, no godfather and no affluence which could usher him into the limelight in spite of his skills and talent. Hence, he was unable to secure appointments with the high and mighty of the painting world and unable to book galleries to exhibit his collection even though he kept attempting repeatedly for them. This had been going on for the last ten years and Nidal who was nearly forty now had stayed unmarried, dedicated to his passion. But he had started losing his hopes of ever making it big.

Then all of a sudden, today afternoon an agent of a very successful and famous painter called Pratapnarayan Bhatia had contacted him on the phone. He fixed up an appointment and came to see him straight away at about three p.m. He put a proposal to him. His boss had by chance come across some of his work and liked them. Not only liked them but had been thoroughly impressed by the flawless mastery of his brush and his techniques that were very rarely to be found today. As a result, he was ready to promote him by allowing him to exhibit his collection in his own private galleries. He would also invite the leading art critics and various wealthy patrons on the inaugural day and hold a gala opening ceremony in his honor. However, there was a catch to it all. Pratapnarayan was now nearly seventy and was on the verge of retiring from active profession. He did not want to tour or meet people or exhibit his work anymore. He wanted to sit back and bask in his glory. But, before making the grand exit, he wanted to present the world with a successor who would carry on his name. And he had chosen Nidal for this. Nidal would have to announce to the world that he was a student and pupil of Pratapnarayan and sign some legal papers to that effect. After that he would not have to worry. His life would be made. However, if Nidal did not agree, Pratapnarayan would make sure that Nidal never got a second chance to exhibit his work as he was not used to taking a negative answer and also because he did not want his plans for a successor to leak out.

Nidal was initially too stunned and shocked by the proposal to say anything. With supreme effort, he could only manage to ask for a couple of days to think everything over. The agent, who was a sleekly dressed fellow in his late fifties had immediately got up to leave but had left the papers on his table. He had smiled meaningfully at Nidal from his window of his chauffer driven car. “Think it over”, he had said. “There is no harm in thinking. As I understand, the question that you are facing just now is ‘do you or don’t you want to be a professional painter?’ Your choices are very limited, aren’t they?” With those parting words the car had driven off.

And now Nidal was thinking. Should he forget everything about old Hamid Sheikh who had labored over him for years and taught him the intricate brush strokes and the rare techniques that Pratapnarayan found so impressive? Should he bow down to this outrageous proposal just to get one initial break for exhibiting his collection? But if he did not, he very well knew that Pratapnarayan was capable of carrying out his threat of spoiling all his chances for the rest of his life. In that case too, nobody would ever learn about Hamid Sheikh and his painting legacy. And nobody would learn about Nidal or his beautiful creations. But somehow he still could not bring himself to accept the proposal.

He kept walking absentmindedly, lost in his own thoughts. Suddenly, he heard a shout and came to himself with a jolt. He was passing through a neighborhood where some boys had been playing with a ball on the river bank. In trying to catch a throw, one boy had slipped and fallen into the river and was somehow getting farther away from the bank with all his struggling. He could not swim and was absolutely terrified. His friends could not swim either and were all standing and shouting for help. Nidal acted quickly. He threw off his shawl and jumped into the water in his best silken kurta-pajama that he had worn that afternoon. He was a good swimmer and was soon with the drowning boy. Gradually, he dragged him back with him to the safety of the bank. By the time he got up from the water with the unconscious boy hanging limply from his arms the distraught parents had arrived at the spot. He laid the boy on the grass and massaged his chest. The boy coughed and spluttered out the water that was blocking his normal breathing. Then he slowly opened his eyes. His parents were utterly relieved and were overcome with deep gratitude for Nidal for delivering them from a calamity. This boy was their only child. Nidal, who was himself panting with the efforts, picked up the boy in his arms and smiled reassuringly at him. Then he turned to his parents.

“That was a near thing. Luckily I was around. Please teach your son how to swim before allowing him to play near water. And there always ought to be an adult nearby to supervise the kids when they are near the water front. Now kindly show me your home.”

Everybody soon reached the boy’s house, which stood in a row of cottages facing the street running parallel to the river. There Nidal made the boy comfortable in his bed and sought to take his leave. But his parents would not listen to any of that.

“You have saved our Deepak’s life. How could we ever thank you for this”, the mother said tearfully.

“Oh forget it. I just happened to be nearby and did my duty”, Nidal replied waving his hand in front of his face as if to brush away the possibility of any credit.

Deepak’s father stepped forward. “Even then you are a God-sent savior of our son and you are also all wet and dripping. Please change into some of my clothes and at least have a cup of hot tea with us before you leave.”

Nidal could not refuse them that. So he took the white cotton kurta-pajama offered by the man and changed into them in the bathroom. By the time he had dried himself up and come to join the gathering sitting around Deepak, his mother brought in a tray carrying cups full of piping hot tea. She also brought in a large plate of hot potato and onion fries. As everybody sat drinking and munching and talking of their narrow escape in the misadventure that occurred a short while ago, Nidal got acquainted with Deepak’s father. He was called Satyaprakash Malhotra and was the principal of a leading higher secondary school in the city. In the face of mutual goodwill and the easy flowing conversation, Nidal found himself talking about what had been on his mind all evening to this man. Satyaprakash listened to him intently. He too had heard of Nidal and his paintings from some of his numerous acquaintances. As a result he could very well appreciate Nidal’s predicament. When Nidal had finished his narrative, Satyaprakash leaned forward towards him.

“If you don’t mind, I have a proposal of my own. This may not be as glamorous as the one from Pratapnarayan but then you would have your chance of showcasing your work to many people and would not have lie about your tutor. My school is one of the leading ones in the city and we have many students. You could exhibit your collection in our hall where all the students and their families and friends would come and view them. We could organize this event on a large scale and invite the press representatives and important social workers on the inaugural day. The exhibition could run for a fortnight and would be open to the public after the regular school hours. Besides this opportunity, I am also offering you the post of the arts and drawing teacher in our school whereby you could train the young students and pass on the knowledge and skills given to you by your late tutor Hamid Sheikh. What could be a better way to repay him for his teaching you than to pass his skills on to the next generation? Besides, you would also not have to run a painting stall in the bazaar and the fixed salary would leave you with more time for painting. And when your exhibition gets reported in the newspapers, it is bound to attract the attention of the members of your professional circle and Pratapnarayan would not be able to stop you from getting started in your own right.”

It was Nidal’s turn for gratitude now. He felt a huge burden taken off his heart. He grabbed Satyaprakash’s both hands in his own and looked at him full of emotion.

“You don’t know Sir, what respite you bring me. I do not care about glamor and fanfare. I only want people to see my creations and learn about Hamid Sheikh and his art-style. I only want professional justice. Not only do you grant to fulfill my life’s only dream but you have saved my honor and my dignity. I can’t tell you how degraded I felt carrying the papers of that blackmailer around with me, thinking about it.”

With that he took out a waterproof envelope containing a set of printed legal documents from his pocket and tore them to pieces in front of everybody.