On knowledge, shared as art
with Rishabh K.
many years ago, in a land, not too old for today, there was a boy who loved art. he had found a teacher, and every evening, after college, he would go to his teacher. the teacher was a good friend, and they discussed politics as much as they discussed cricket. the boy was wonderstruck, always. his words outran his thoughts, when he sat with his friend, and talked. the friend would allow his young student to watch him paint. perhaps he liked to hear the metaphors that the student would share, as he was struck by a brush stroke
he remembered once, how he’d taken one look at the use of aquamarine, in a portrait of a home decked up in old wood - squeaking clean, and cosy to a fault - and allowed only one word to cross the threshold of his imagination: “laughter”.
this is how he had learnt from his student, what he already knew, but never put into words: colour has life. each distinct variation, even shades disained on the pallette, had personality. each vacant swathe spoke in the timbre of its history. the rare stone, found in an ancient mine, visited only by mushrooms who lent their white, making it pastel.
he once compared a curl to the spin of a cricket ball cast by krishna, no less. the teacher burst out laughing, and asked him why he thought krishna was a leg spinner. but he has to be was the immediate response, and they both burst out in peals of laughter.
i remembered this story today, as i was parsing through some old books. perhaps it was serendipitous, as i was thinking of shared knowledge, in the context of the news that many commentators agree could ‘change the future of the internet’.
the story of that boy spoke to questions of knowledge, shared and drawn from; constantly evolving, and tied deeply to human relationships.
the boy noticed, one day, a similarity between the way a horse was drawn in his painting, and the fist curled in another painting by an artist from the Kangra region in Himachal Pradesh. but the painting was made a few centuries ago. the boy marvelled at this similarity. it was uncanny. but different. that was when he took up the pen for the first time in front of the teacher.
he sat at the notebook for a few hours, and wrote the difference. the teacher waited patiently, knowing that time had escaped the boy in that moment. he was now a prisoner of the space.
after a few seconds, the boy asked him whether he would like to listen to what he had written. the teacher looked into his eyes, and nodded. the boy read out what he’d written.
after he finished, the student looked at him. the teacher smiled to himself. but did not let it show. he nodded sagely, as he thought about the title he would give the poem, if he had written it -
tradition
I share with you, to bookend the musing. a poem by Rishabh K. , a young marathi poet from bombay whose (to be published) story I have excerpted with his permission.
hope you, and your loved, are finding meaning in this tumultous time. do write to poetly@pm.me if you have any questions, queries, or comments. i will write back as soon as I find the space, and the time.
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