It was a very vague painting. In its meaning. There are
simpler ways to convey these ideas than the convoluted mysteries a stroke of a
brush puts up on a canvas, Utioh thought. It meant a lot to him though. The
lady with a rose in her hand. Sniffing it, reminded her of a son she had. A son
long lost in some foreign country she had been to. Her slightly bent frame and averted
eyes could well be interpreted as the shyness of a lady when a red rose was
presented to her by a prospective suitor. By some pessimistic mind, it could be
seen as an offering she was making on the death anniversary of her beloved, at
a cemetery. What it meant to Utioh was just a mother, going to a garden,
picking up a fallen flower and feeling nostalgic about her son. It couldn’t be
more obvious to him. The motherly love was poignant. He had painted it with all
his heart for a week. It was his favorite painting. The others were lying in
the gallery of the hospital. A make-shift gallery that is. The hospital thought
that their almost resident, two- year admitted patient should be allowed to
display his visual treats. Out of lack of space they had to shift the paintings
to the doorway near the morgue. They were quite out of place though. One wouldn’t
expect that particular doorway to have a line-up of such extravagant and boldly colorful work.
The famed Brooklyn bridge, an airplane, the Alps mountain range being looked at
excitedly by prospective mountaineers planning for a climb, a toddler being
mesmerized by his own reflection in a clear pond, with the backdrop of a quaint
European neighborhood - Utioh’s paintings sometimes spoke of brilliant adventure
and sometimes quite moments of reflection. This painting was quite less showy.
It was almost a passive portrait of a woman.
A nurse knocked the door and gently interrupted him.
‘Sir, we need to do your pre-Op just in case’
‘Just in case?’
‘Just in case you vomit blood and we have to re-operate’ the
nurse said, her tone easily giving away how hard she was trying to be less
motherly and more objective about her patient’s well-being.
‘Okay’ Utioh said,
without any emotion. He was just trying to get his mind off that hauntingly
beautiful sight of his mother he saw in his dream the night before. It was one
of those recurring dreams which started him on this particular portrait.
He was about five when his mother passed away succumbing to osteosarcoma. He
couldn’t remember much about her except that she loved him deeply and that
being a single mother, she had a hard time with her disease and her son to take
care of. Twelve years after her death he was diagnosed with a rare cancer of the
retina. The genetic connection was denied by his doctors. He didn’t have the
usual regret his doctors saw cancer patients have - of living someone else’s
life. Brought up in an orphanage like he was, it wasn’t necessary to succeed
with stellar grades to impress anyone. There was no one to impress but himself.
The world was too fast and too unconcerned with his success as far as he knew.
All he accepted as a source of happiness was beauty. It was a plan to travel
every single country there is, to take in that varied mix of myriad colors,
people and breathe the air of every place there is to see. And limited as his
means were, he planned, he dreamed.
‘Its done Utioh, you must take rest now’
‘Thanks nurse, I will. I’ll ring my pager if I have any reaction,
okay?’
‘Yes’ she smiled perfunctorily and left.
He tried sleeping aided by the drowsiness induced by the drug.
He could see the walls around him, blurring. Blank white walls unlike
those he wanted. They didn’t have wall-high glass windows with a beach view of
the Californian house he dreamed of. They definitely didn’t have the
view of a snow filled garden a quaint European home in the midst of winter
would have. The whiteness of the walls just made him think of that metaphor he
used for life- a canvas. And just like his own life, it was blank. Waiting to
be painted with his dreams, in whatever years he had left. Or months, as the
doctor had said last week. It was impossible he knew. Either his eyes would
give way to cancer or his life. He didn’t care to consider which would happen
first, and which one would be more painful. Beauty was life for him. There were
means to get to see beauty - money, opportunity, people. What he had was
static art, inspired by the art classes he took as a kid, stories he heard from
the orphanage nuns, photographs he saw. He knew there were millions of places
in the world which would take his breath away the moment he feasted his eyes on
them. There were thousands of people to meet and conversations to be had, thoughts to be shared, perspectives to understand, cultures to marvel at. He longed for them every night. He wondered if by just thinking about
them, he would have dreams where he could visit all those places, meet all those people. Whether his
subconscious could make up for the lack of a reality he wanted. It was working
since a week. He could see his mother. She would think about him in the gardens
of heaven. He opened his eyes to take another look at her portrait.
A little girl wearing a light blue hospital gown just like his
was also looking at the portrait. She appeared to be of about four. Utioh begin
to get up from his bed. Sensing movement about her, she looked in his direction
with her big blue curious eyes. The twinkle in them sharply contrasted the dark
circles around her eyes. She began to smile a tiny smile. Utioh felt like
lifting her up, and swirling her around but he could presently barely lift
himself off the bed. She ran a little and sat on his bedside without prompting.
‘What brings you here little angel?’ Utioh asked.
‘I heard you paint. I like it.’ She said pointing to the
woman’s portrait.
‘Thank you young lady. Do you want me to paint you a
picture?’ he asked.
‘No, but I want to know who that lady is. She is beautiful,
can I meet her?’
‘She is my mother. I will meet her soon. You cannot. Sorry’
Utioh said with an apologetic face.
‘Oh. That’s okay. By the way, you have a pretty face just
like your mother. Why don’t you come with me to my ward? We will play. We will
talk.’ She said with excitement.
‘Okay, hold my hand and lead me there, young lady. And why
are you here wearing this blue gown?’
‘I have a little problem doctor Robert says. He says I have
something called osteosa… osteosama.’
Utioh skipped a heart-beat. He tried to change the topic.
‘Oh. Doctor Robert. He is a handsome fellow too, don’t you
think?’
‘Naah, he’s just okay. Anyway, most doctors are expected to
be handsome you know.’
Utioh let out a chuckle.
‘Why, who told you?’
‘Why would you stay in a ward like this to just look at
people who are not handsome putting needles in you?’
‘Young lady, you have got a point. What is your name by the
way?’
‘Cristina. What about you?’
‘Utioh’
‘What does it mean?’
‘I would like to believe it means the sun.’
‘You don’t have a dictionary, do you?’ Cristina said with a
laugh. ‘Tell me how long will you be here. I can be your friend. I am going to
be here till next month.’
‘This is my home now’ Utioh said.
‘Oh. Great. We’ll play everyday.’
‘Yes.’
He turned around before heading towards Cristina’s ward and
saw a nurse standing by. She was looking at the girl with such pity in her eyes, he knew he
would be sharing his home with Cristina from then on. Hope had expanded
definitions. He had a friend to share some cheer amidst his fears. He hoped for
her as well now. It didn’t matter if the walls were white. He knew it didn’t
matter as long as he could see them with someone else.
