I smiled at heras I rememberedit. It hadtruly been one of the greatest moments of my life.
“You don’t seem to talk much?”she observed, pouting. “But I guess most artists tend to expressthemselves best in their form of art.”
I slowlyremoved my handkerchief and showed her my right hand, hoping thatit would scare her off and I could get some peace.
“Right now, Miss Marshall, Ican’t even express myself in the art form that I knowbest.”
“Oh, no!” she exclaimed, seizingmy hand. “What have you done to your fingers, Mr. Ali?”
“Actually, they got chopped offin a car accident, two months ago.” I was surprised that there wasno revulsion on her face.
“My!” she said still holding myhand. “We can’t let that talent in you go to waste. Mr. Ali, youhave to paint somehow.”
“They say you can’t teach an olddog new tricks, Miss Marshall. I don’t see how I can learn to usemy left hand effectively at this age.”
“Why don’t you call me Maria andI’ll call you Nagoth?” she said.
“OK,” I said.
“Nagoth, Iknow you are going to come out on top, even after this,” she saidcheerfully.
“I wish I could share youroptimism,” I replied. “But if I can’t paint with my hand, what elseis there?”
“Why don’t we take a walk totown, Nagoth? I know a lot of sights that will cheer youup.”
“Maria!” I started to protest.But she would hear none of it and pulled me along.
In ordernot to create a scene, I followed her. Philip was still in thelounge.
“Wouldn’t mind my ass beingdragged to town,” I heard him say.
I had agood time for the first time in a long time that day.
I remember that Philip arrived at theLodge after Mrs. Marshall and Maria did. He was friendly witheveryone, and we talked now and then. He told me that he had been aprofessional wrestler, but that hard drugs had been the bane of hiscareer.
Then, you came along. Mr. Big Shot, ex- policeman. You made medislike you on the first day. I had gone to buy some shaving powderfrom one of the nearby shops. I was putting on a pair of bathroomslippers, a white shirt and white shorts. As I entered the lounge,I noticed you entering your name in the guest register. You lookedlike you had been ill. Your clothes hung on your shoulders. Yourface was gaunt and your eyes were deep in their sockets. I waswalking by when you called out to me.
“Hey you, comeand help me with these bags.” That was what you said.
I was dumbfounded. It mighthave been okay if you were joking. I mean, I can take a joke justas well as the next man. But I could see that you were not. Mysmall stature had betrayed and robbed me yet again of my dignityand self-respect. Your words were like a stinging slap on my face.I felt highly insulted. Though you looked bigger and older, I hadno doubt that you were about my age. Anger welled up in me. If I had agun, I might have shot you and damned the consequences.
Youjudged me on physical appearance. Physical size is not everything.It should not be the parameter for judging people, for‘eligibility’ or for ‘admission’ into friendship circles. One couldargue that just as short or ‘small’ men tend to be overlyaggressive, ‘big’ men, like yourself, tend to be too laid-back, toodull, too relaxed, as respect comes naturally.
Then, there are those likeWillie … ifyou are not a member of their religious denomination or sect, youcannot be allowed ‘in’. In their eyes, you are not good enough; you will neverbe. Highly prejudiced and insanely fanatical, they are rigid anduncompromising in the choice of those they accept based on theirstandards.
That has always been myexperience. For as long as I can remember, people have seen my height and concluded,before even giving me a chance. There was even this incidentwhen I was in secondary school … the school organised an art contest to celebrateits Golden Jubilee. Students were asked to submit their artwork toone of the teachers in the school, one Mr. Udo Edam. He was a thin,haggard and scruffy-looking man with permanently red eyes. He wasalways quarrelling with everyone, including the Principal. But hewas the most senior Art teacher. He would never negotiate; hepreferred forcing people to accept his opinions, which were oftensenseless. Apart from being cantankerous, Mr. Edam suffered twoadditionalailments. First, hewas ethnocentric. He waxed strong in tribalism. If you were notfrom his tribe, it meant you were a lesser mortal. That was one ofthe reasons he was always at loggerheads with the Principal, whowas from a different tribe. Secondly, Mr. Edam believed in usingsize as a yardstick for determining capabilities.
By thetime I got to the office of Mr. Edam with my own work, which I hadspent many hours working on, I saw that a small queue had formed bythe door. I quickly joined the queue.
“You willdefinitely win this competition, Nagoth,” said the boy, who hadcome up behind me, as soon as he glanced at my work. “I’m ashamedto submit mine now.” He was the biggest boy in my class. His namewas Okocha. In sports, he ruled the field, but he became aspectator when it came to academics. Yet, hewas one of Mr. Edam's favourite students, as they were from thesame tribe.
“Let me see your own,” I said tohim.
Heshowed it to me, rather reluctantly.
“It is good,”I said to him, looking at his work, which was done withpapiermache. And Iwas not lying, it was a good attempt.
“But yours isbetter,” said Okocha, looking at my painting of ahouse, beside which was a woman with a baby on her back, takingwater out of a well. “We have a football match in the afternoon.Are you coming?” he asked. That was his territory.It waswhere he reallybecame artistic and creative.
“Of course, I will come,” Iassured him.
As soonas I stepped into Mr. Edam’s office, his face changed.
“What? Go back, I
