The spreading streak of Indian ink

The joy of expression through art comes at a subtle, yet painful price

shadow and meaning from the crumbling powder of charcoal and the quivering, spreading streak of black India ink. To watch my own face grow from curving lines as I sat across from her, to see tones of reflected daylight bloom on my cheeks as she rubbed round and round...it was mesmeric.

The paintings depicted an aerial view of a street. A bridal procession snaked its way down houses garlanded with shimmering fairy lights. Men on horses, a crimson red and gold palanquin, a firework frozen in mid-air, drummers adorned in silk, and there were people like me who danced their way down a painted street. One could see vendors heaving laden carts of amulets and souvenirs, beggars sprawled on the street, and a boy gazing at the skyline – all radiating a spectrum of colours.

until I met the owner.

“Fifteen?” He guessed.

“No, twenty!” I lied.

“You’re too young. Look at the other men, they’re old enough to be your fathers. And what does a boy your age want to work here for anyway? Go home!” Mr Chana turned to leave.

“Wait! Look, I need the work. Why does it matter to you what age I am?” My voice rose as Mr Chana’s figure retreated towards the office.

“I’ll take half of what the others ask you for!”

The figure stopped. Paintbrushes hovered in mid-air – all eyes turned to me.

He grinned.

“Make me some samples; we have a new client coming in today. If I like your samples, you can paint his bus.” He turned to me. “But first, I need tea… from that stall at the end of the lane. Don’t walk slowly... it looks like rain”.

Rolls of soiled paper stretched across the yard table, unearthed from the cupboard between cans of paint and turpentine. I worked vigorously whilst the other men furtively glimpsed at what looked like bursts of colour dancing on a black surface. Days later, three completed panels surfaced, its pictures celebrating Karachi city’s vitality.

The first thing she said to me, “Did you know that black can glow?” It was hard to look away while she was drawing. She knew how to build light, depth,

“The less a painting contains, the more the content communicates,” she continued. “It’s like a blank painting says as much as an intricately painted canvas”. I smiled at her while trying to untangle the meaning of what she’d just said.

I turned to the workers. They were astounded by the artwork’s intricate perfection; it was unlike anything they’d ever seen on a Karachi bus. They plunged into the commotion of a city that never slept, one that transformed into a luminous spectacle with harmonic music and inviting crowds. It may have been certain circumstances involving lovingly harboured delusions that really punctuated this love of a place. They scuttled away, whispering the implausibility of Mr Chana allowing me to direct the painting of a bus as my first project. Strands of rumbling clouds leaned in to hear the conversation.

My eyes travelled across the panels, looking for some minute detail I’d left out. Drained, I propped them against the yard wall while Mr Chana remained in his office, slurping his endless cups of tea. I wandered outside into the workshops, passing men with welding guns and metal cutters, fashioning velvet tapestries and mirrors onto buses. Madly careering buses paraded down Karachi’s streets, each a moving gallery of images that exhibited religious iconography, voluptuous women reclining in gardens of pillars, and proverbs written with ornate calligraphy. Peacocks, flora in full bloom, veiled faces of women with coy kohl-rimmed eyes; these were recognised images in the language of bus-art. Bus owners paid small fortunes for their vehicles to be decorated. I imagined Mr Chana’s response to my panels; I pictured my bus being whispered about on the streets… more work orders would come in. She took me out for a drink for the first time. Our teeth clattered against martini glasses repeatedly, urgently, like we were trying to reach a goal. It was not even about the drink, but the orchestral story that unfolded, which I conducted in rapture. I even ate the skewered olive. When my mouth formed that perfect ‘o’ - the dream of polished floors, ballroom dancing and the gentle swish of embroidered fabric flourished.

“Hi, I don’t think I introduced myself, I’m Abdul”. She took my proffered hand in her cool palm and held it in a way I imagined suggestive. “Aisha,” she said, looking amused as if I’d done something particularly silly. “What’s the point of it,” she began, “It’s all for fame… they all end up where they’ve started from anyway, don’t you think?” She turned to me and I smiled weakly.

“Hey you!” I turned to see one of the men from the workshop. “Mr Chana wants you in his office,” he said sullenly, before walking off.

I followed with a knot of anticipation in my stomach. I barely observed the man who stood sternly in Mr Chana’s doorway. His watch lit the room, and fumes from his cigarette hung in the air. I didn’t know how long I stood before he noticed me.

“He’ll be doing my bus?” asked the man sceptically.

“Yes, sir. He looks young, but has such skill at a tender age,” Mr Chana was assuring. “And… and he’s cheaper than the other men…” his voice trailed off hopefully. Within minutes I was nodding at Mr Chana’s request to bring in the panels for display. I leapt from the corridor into the yard.

A distant sound accompanied me as I sprinted through the archway and into the open. I felt my hair, drenched and matted, stick to my scalp. Men scurried around heaving their work into the shade.

Chatter suffocated the dampness of the air. Mr Chana and the man approached me, their thunderous voices fading as they sighted the panels.

Black paint ran down drenched paper, swallowing every colour in its wake. The wedding procession, the boy gazing at the skyline, the turmeric in women’s carts, the flickering fireworks - surged onto the yard floor.

Some people see the future in a ball of blinding white light. Some see the past in the black cracks between moments. And me? I don’t see anything at all.

Peacocks, flora in full bloom, veiled faces of women with coy kohl-rimmed eyes; these were recognised images in the language of bus-art