Touch-Up

Dr Kushal Basu entered the private section of the opening of the sculpture exhibition at the Alankar Art Gallery -- his wife Rini’s invite to one of the many. In his summer white jacket over his royal blue shirt, he looked overdressed for the intelligentsia that the khadi-kurta clad Calcutta art scene was infamous for. In recent times some of the more ambitious kind had found out the tussar to drape, but the jholas would inevitably accompany. The gathering was an hour old, and the whisky, wine and vodka were reaching their three quarter end. Artists who were names, artists who were still struggling, artists who were originally artists, all flocked around a pretty coterie of curio items strewn over the large area. The voices were getting louder, the words slurrier. A quick scan, and the doctor diagnosed the only two new faces there, both young. His diagnosis could be relied upon for he was one of the most banked upon names in the field of cosmetic surgery. One was leaving, a smart girl, obviously an art college student, making her way with one of the professors, way too closely, and another, a little too introvert to belong here.

Sharing glass clinks across the length of the room, he finally made it to the seating area where Radha di was surrounded by her usual fan following. The other new face sat next to her on the other side. Radha di introduced him to the internationally renowned artist Brinda Roy. He exchanged a handshake while mentioning he had attended a week long facial-sculpture workshop at the Royal College of Art, London. Brinda Roy appeared impressed, and generous in her congratulating Dr Basu about it. Just as Radha di was about to introduce the young, new face to him, Rini made a warm welcome entry. Kushal watched as flocks of old men made their way towards her and hugged her. Some, a little too tight, some for the sake of bridging a social distance. She looked fantastic, as usual, in her heavy Kanchivaram saree and abnormally big gold necklace. She had claimed an artistic appeal about it when they had bought it at the Dubai Gold Bazaar, he still couldn’t fathom how. Like a pro, Rini made it to each corner, each table extending personal greetings and remarking on the familial space. ‘Hope Abhijit is enjoying Jadavpur’, ‘How is Mrs Sanyal?’, ‘How could you miss the himsagar? You should have called me. I will send some over from the last batch tomorrow!’, ‘Yes, I had the hilsa at the Grand Hilsa Festival. Can’t cook like Joyee di yet!’, ‘How old is Sudakshina? Dear, dear! How she has grown! Do bring her to our place when you come next.’ Like his deft moves with the glass clinks, Rini moved with her smiling one-liners. Kushal wondered where she summoned so much interest from. She put her hands on his shoulders and sat next to him. ‘Radha di! How nice of you to call me here!’

She was introduced to Brinda Roy too, and finally, at the end of the second hour, the crowd was asked to disperse. As they all walked out together, behaving like old friends beneath their envious, competitive masks, Sameer Sekhawat, the gallery owner offered a special thank you to the jamai of the house, Dr Kushal Basu, for being able to make it out of his busy schedule. He cursed the Bengali culture of hospitality which was well bred into the Marwari community living there. This special mention would cost him around forty to fifty thousand, now that he was obliged to make a purchase. Another stone hurled at my image. Rini was busy speaking with Brinda Roy cajoling her to their place for the adda where everyone else was going when suddenly a meek but confident voice came up to him.

‘Hi Dr Basu. My name is Gaurika. I am Brinda Roy’s daughter. Lovely jacket!’

The second new face, young. And, a millionaire at that.

Offering his skillful surgeon’s hand, he said, ‘Thank you, Gaurika. Well noticed.’

‘Well, I noticed you noticed me too.’ There was no sign of nervousness in this sentence. It felt like a burning knife into the cold skin. The diagnosis of a meek introvert went wrong. Or, right. He had merely judged the cosmetics of the girl. The character was yet to be explored.

As the lift was packed with drunken artists, Dr Basu asked if Gaurika would like to take the stairs. ‘Sure!’ By the end of the first flight she chirped, ‘Thank you for breaking the boredom of the intelligent. Now the whisky makes some sense.’ After a pause she added, ‘Sorry, I meant pseudo-intelligent.’

Kushal took her hands and smiled. ‘I understand. What do you do?’

Not at all uncomfortable at finding a stable hand for the stairs, Gaurika mentioned she was pursuing her Masters in Art History at Royal College of Art, London. ‘Yes, that is where I had first seen you. Dr Kushal Basu, forgive me if my drink is making me speak too much, I found you really attractive. My friends said I was foolish of course. I was counting on you to come over this evening.’

At the second level of stairs they halted for a bit. The surgeon was quite obviously cut open. Years of practice, experience and dexterity had not prepared him for such a conversation. He could not decide if she was merely drunk. He certainly hoped not. He could earn the gratitude of the mother for taking care of her tipsy little teasing daughter, winning him a painting worth many lakhs, else the daughter – a priceless togetherness. ‘Thank you Gaurika. Here’s my card. Call me tomorrow when your words are not tangled with each other. I will wait.’ And he touched her cheeks softly. They were smooth, like rich milk.

‘I will, Dr Basu. And I am not drunk.’ She smiled. ‘I would appreciate if you do not discuss this with Rini di. She is very sweet.’

He walked her to his mother and their car. ‘Good night, Ma’am. Good night, Gaurika.’ Damn you Brinda Roy. You will regret the moment when you refused to acknowledge my skill for which you daughter fell a prey. He walked back to Rini and whispered in her ears, ‘Enough of this show acting. I want you in the car in five minutes. And no more artsy adda tonight at our place. Get rid of them here. Make any excuse. I am hungry. For you.’

Rini gave him a friendly nod. ‘Oh Kushal you should have mentioned earlier! Why do you always need to be so sweet? She turned towards her group of drunkards and said commandingly, ‘Gentleman, and Radha di, I am sorry we have to rush tonight. Kushal has an early morning tomorrow. High profile. He needs rest. And the sweetheart that he is, he wouldn’t let me entertain you guys by myself. So let me get back to you tomorrow. We will have an adda by the weekend, surely.’ She waved and made her way towards the waiting car.

As they got off, she received a text on her phone from an unsaved number. It said, ‘Done. Calling him tomorrow.’ Dr Kushal Basu, come home and tell me how much you want me tomorrow. Love me, need me, cannot do without. Melting stones is not a surgeon’s skill. It calls for an artist’s touch.