King of his universe

He was the quintessential artist. Stubble on his chin, gold rimmed spectacles hardly doing anything to hide the sadness in his eyes, a flowing white shirt, inexpensive blue trousers (the kind that people rarely wear these days), and brown shoes that didn't match at all with the rest of his outfit. A bulging folder, no doubt full of his works, and pencils of various colors jutting out of his shirt pocket completed the rest of his getup.

His eyes were sad in a very inexplicable way. I don't know if sad eyes are something characteristic of artists, or was it merely lack or work, or both, or something else. Either way, he cut a lonely figure sitting beside Mr. Ronald McDonald on the bench outside McDonalds on that chilly November evening. It was a tragicomic contrast between them, Ronald smiling away for all the world to see, and the painter, (by now I'm sure that's what he was) portraying sadness on his own face.

I myself was seated opposite him on a compound wall, just a few metres away, waiting for a habitually late friend. From time to time, he would open his folder, take out a portrait of a face he'd drawn with those wonderfully colorful pencils of his, and gaze into it. People were constantly passing by, it being a Friday evening, and McDonalds being what it is in the suburbs, there was a steady flow of people in and out of the restaurant. People would stop for a second, stare with open admiration at his drawings, and pass by on their way.

That was when I started feeling sorry. Now who on earth these days gets face portraits done? Sitting still for minutes together, that too outside of McDonalds? People have cellphone cameras, digicams, and photo shooting has never been easier. Who'd pay 20-30 bucks to see their face in color pencil shading, when Picassa and Photoshop let you do the same thing for free? He seemed at that moment, a guy extremely misplaced in space and time. There was a touch of sadness rankling within me still, as my friend arrived and we went in.

Talking about a host of other things, I forgot about him after stepping inside. Around half an hour later, we emerged outside. He came to mind at once and I looked in the direction of the bench. Surprise surprise. A young married couple had seated their little kid of about six or seven on Ronald's lap. He was looking the other way, and they were forcing him to sit still. A surge of happiness went through me. He'd got someone to draw! Beyond the kid I could see him.

The folder was open in his lap, a few pages jutting out. He was busy at work, gold rimmed spectacles reflecting the bright lights of the building. There were color pencils tucked into the gaps between his fingers on his left hand, which he'd clenched into a fist, somehow managing to hold a clipboard, on which he was drawing. With the deftness of a master, he'd switch pencils between his right and left hand without opening the fist. The child stirred, and with the stern voice you'd associate with a teacher, he told him to stay still. And continued. As I passed him on my way out, my shadow fell on his clipboard momentarily, and he looked up. As our eyes met for an instant, I realized something.

Gone was the sadness. His brows were knitted in intense concentration, and the sadness was replaced by the impatience of a man interrupted in the middle of something he's really passionate about. He was the king of his universe at that moment. My shadow moved on, and his clipboard was bright again. And the artist was back at work, drawing faint shades of hair on the portrait.

I realized I was a lot lighter at heart as I went home.