Lines, or A Portrait Contemplates Its Audience
Written and Narrated by Nitin Jagdish
Maryland
Author Nitin Jagdish provides the background for his story:
The genesis of this story is rather autobiographical. My maternal grandfather served in the last Mysore maharaja’s court as a diwan. He was a Milton aficionado. He was known for having a temper, but he was very gentle with me. Of course, since I’m his daughter’s son, I’m not carrying his last name (or my paternal grandfather’s for that matter; South Indian immigrants went through a renaming process back in the late 60s).
There is a painting of the court members that hangs in a Mysore museum, and he’s in the portrait. The missus and I paid a visit back in 2006. I had just finished a fellowship that allowed me to work as a congressional staffer, and wasn’t sure I wanted to go back to being a Federal bureaucrat. Seeing him in the painting triggered (to use a fashionable verb) a fair amount of depression and unease about my place in the world (“I have so little and that can be taken away”). Rather than writing a straight poem about how I felt back then when I saw my grandfather’s portrait, I thought it would be more interesting to write about how the grandfather views the grandson, only to reveal the grandson has written all of his lines. It was a challenge to revisit that time in my life.
Lines, or A Portrait Contemplates Its Audience
After a member of the court of a Mysore maharaja dies, his soul is trapped in a painting of him. Years later, his grandson and granddaughter-in-law come to see the portrait.
“Which portrait is his?”
“That one. I guess it looks like him.”
Dearest Kiran, the great painter lacked an artisan’s cast of mind. His meek lines smack of incompetence: my frame bleeds into the background, scarcely discernable; my face, behind immense specs, is barely seen.
You are my sweetest boon: a grandson to push our family’s name deeper into posterity. A man will not perish if his family’s name is still heard in the world; its embers stave oblivion.
“This would’ve been a great photo if the guard wasn’t so uptight.”
The gods have spoken. No day ends before: a tenured cook defrauds her employer, a Brahmin soils his soul by traveling abroad, a beef-drunk tourist befriends a beggar, and the guard scolds a would-be picture taker.
Sweet bumbling jailer, why do you bother? The gods have decreed this work will receive only stray glances from posterity. Scant lines slant to see it; one flashbulb will not summon a cascade of bleaching light.
“What was he like?”
“He was a hothead, but gentle with me. The last time I saw him, we had to share a bed. I wet it. He never told my parents. Of course, he was eighty-two at the time; how can we be sure it was me?”
Appa translated Sanskrit poems and plays into English and Kannada; his books are still borrowed from libraries. I shook hands with Mountbatten and Panditji, and served in the last Maharaja’s court.
This proud clan, blessed through the yugas with legions of sages, is now cursed with a polluted family line: Kiran is a dolt, and his grasps at wit accent a life of stoic mediocrity.
Lord Surya, grant me the sweetest boon: deface this portrait. Let your divine light simmer and bleach this prison, dissolve its form and color, and free me to be reborn into the world.
I will be reborn as my great grandson and rebel against Kiran: I will earn a first-class degree, marry a proper girl and pursue a suitable career. I will rehabilitate our name for posterity.
“He studied English literature, Milton particularly. Everyone says he was very well-read.”
“Sounds like you would’ve gotten along well with him.”
“I wish I had a chance to talk to him about poetry.”
Your lines disgrace the art of poetry, and sound nothing like me: I would never twaddle about posterity, oblivion-staving embers or beef-drunk tourists. You may be high-born, but your writing betrays a street hawker’s mentality. Use another dummy to peddle your lines.
It is hopeless. Kiran, I cannot persuade you to erase this doggerel. Thanks to your mulish ways, I am now twice-trapped in ill-rendered lines.