The Object of My Love

Aug 3, 1999

It was just a dream for him in the beginning. A little speck of dust in his imagination and a fleeting wind that sighed in the bamboo trees in the yard.

He was a sculptor of great repute and his handiwork graced many a fountain in the capital city. The busts he carved of maidens and kings adorned many a pedestal in rich houses. There was no longer any space on the wall for the awards and prizes that he kept winning. They were now discarded into a corner of his workshop. In spite of his success, he never let his pride get the better of him. He demanded a price for his art not for the sake of money, but to know how much others valued his creations. But, reputation has its own price. He was forever besieged by requests for more statues, more motifs and more beads to line the necks of wives and courtesans of the nobles. He lived and breathed stone and he was a transformed man once he picked up his chisel. Lightning itself stood still while he chipped the pieces off a chunk of marble. A shapeless forest seemed to transform into a well laid garden once his hands passed over the stone. Laymen and other artists alike used to wonder whether he invoked magic as he worked on the stone.

Life for him had been a long road of attaining perfection in his art. A hammer and chisel were in his hands the moment his palms had opened their baby fists. He had learnt from the best teachers that lived, but he ran through teachers like water through a sieve. One after another teachers let him go after claiming they had nothing more to teach him. It was heard that he was destined to be the greatest sculptor that ever lived. A wholehearted belief in the prediction drove him from strength to strength. He traveled far wide learning the tools of the trade from artists of all styles. He was as much at home while carving the side of a mountain as when he was sculpting a thimble. Once he realized he had nothing more to learn from any mortal, he had settled down in this city.

A life of sculpting, traveling and disregard for his body had taken its toll. The hardships of a tough life had strengthened his constitution. But, he was now a caricature of his former self. Living and working in the sun had burnt and darkened his skin. The scraggy face had many a scar from flying chipped stone. His hair was wizened and scarce from too much exposure to the elements. A lifetime of working and walking on stone had roughened his hands and feet. The excessive muscles in his arms only worsened the caricature due to the lack of strength in other muscles.

Whatever he lacked in his appearance, he made up with his knowledge and cheerful presence. Rich nawabs and art connoisseurs alike vied for his attendance at their events. Ladies used to be mesmerized by his wit and extraordinary countenance. In spite of many amorous overtures, he was always aloof to them. He forever felt the lack of something in each maiden. Being spurned by such an ugly creature only increased the ladies fascination for him. His forays into lands and customs unheard of had given him an acute sense of insight into people. Wise men valued his opinion in their discussions and many a party was regaled by his anecdotes from far off lands.

All that was before he had started on this statue. It was just a dream for him in the beginning. A little speck of dust in his imagination and a fleeting wind that sighed in the bamboo trees in the yard.

His longing for perfection had made him seek out the best within himself and the best in what he could create. When he started comparing his creations with the actual objects, he developed a sense of emptiness. He found that he had to limit his talent to reproduce the likeliness of a lady sitting in front of him. The statues started turning out to be more beautiful than the people he portrayed. That was when he started working on his dream.

He was working on his best creation ever. A perfect maiden with no faults which are found in mortals. A maiden of immense beauty which would be the best whole of the incomplete parts he had ever set his eyes on. A maiden whose form kept shimmering in his dreams like the smoke from the fire in his hearth. His creation would be a beauty that was never seen walking on earth.

It was not an easy task. Creating perfection from a dream was not a task he was trained for or accustomed to. He stopped stepping out of his garden and his world contracted into dreams beckoning from the silent stones. He no longer entertained the presence of people who craved for his company. He worked by sunlight and by the light of the moon. On dark nights, the twinkling of the fireflies in his garden was enough for him to see the shape of the beauty he was slaving on. When he was not immersed in perfecting the image he was dozing next to his work. It was not sleep but a state of meditation for him. A semi-conscious state when he was visualizing the form his unfinished statue was going to take. He was kept alive only due to the diligence of his faithful minions who sustained him while he absentmindedly worked on his beauty.

At some phase during the sculpting, the statue had changed from being a beauty to his beauty. He started developing a sense of possessiveness which ultimately led to a binding love. He was no longer trying to create a beauty but was trying to chisel his aspirations into marble. He was becoming a slave not to the art of creation but to the creation itself. At long last when the final form emerged, he could not even let his eyes blink lest the dream vanish.

She was the definition of beauty itself. A beauty with which even the creator was enamored. She was like a ray of light which the setting sun had forgotten to take along. The fair skin glistened in the moisture dripping from the moonlight. Hair flowed down her back like a waterfall disappearing in a swirling mist. Her back was arched like a taut bow about to launch an arrow. A face shining with such intensity that it seemed to lend the light that was reflected off the moon. A pair of eyes that would have put the golden deer of Sita to shame. Even a Kohinoor would feel inadequate to grace her diadem. The smile was like divinity itself admiring its handiwork in the creation of the world. The half-open eyelids could seduce even a eunuch. The lips were like hives of honey that a million bees slaved for. The neck stretched below the visage was like that of a swan riding gentle waves. A bosom which seemed to embody the peaks of Kailash with the plains of Ganges below them. Slender arms which started from shoulders smooth and soft as the touch of velvet. The palms were shaped like betel leaves bordered by fingers strumming a lyre of passion. Thighs which could cradle the lovelorn Adonis in her lap. A waist which would suck the breath out of any woman wearing a corset. The ankles were as tender as rose buds resting on lotus shaped feet.

The need for perfection had driven him so long. Now he turned crazy with passion and love. He spent his waking hours gazing at her trying to drink her beauty through his eyes. He slumbered at her legs with his hands wrapped around her ankles as if he was afraid she would run away. Physically, he turned worse than when he was busy working on his creation. In his love, nothing seemed worthwhile. He no longer had the strength to do anything but to limber around his object of affection. He spent his time wishing if only she could come alive and gaze at him.

It was a different dream this night. He heard a voice in his dream which seemed to come out of a void. A voice which would satisfy his wish. His maiden of unmatched grace would walk on this earth. But, he will have to pay a price. She will get lungs to breath air and senses to feel life but will miss a heart. A heart was something even beyond the powers of heaven. The sculptor woke with a shiver down his spine, croaking a "yes" to the voice in his dreams.

"Ouch! your hands are rough," exclaimed the maiden while pulling away her feet from his brow. The sculptor was awash with joy. His love and passion could finally speak to him and smile at him. His beauty would walk on the dew laden grass and hold his hand while they gazed at the moon and the stars. They would discover the world together and swim in the ocean of love forever.

While in a stupor at his dream come true, he explained how he had created her. The story of how he had dedicated his life to her creation and how much he loved her. He recited sonnets about his passion for her and how she was the object of his love. A beauty without whom he could not survive and had brought her to life through his sheer will. He had forgone his earthly life just so he could walk through the woods holding her hand. He then described how she was the most perfect maiden there ever was. A beauty whom no mortal lady could ever aim to compare to. There never was and there never will be any maiden born with such beauty and grace. But, slowly the divine smile on the maidens' face faded. Her brow was lined with lines of worry and anxiety.

"What is it my love? that which steals your smile," cried the sculptor, "I have given my life to create and enliven my love. Why does your angelic face sport a worry?"

"Oh dear sir, you have told me what a unique maiden I am. A being of perfection in beauty and grace. Now I fear that I will have a problem realizing my dream! - the perfect gentleman who will be the object of my love and passion."