At the age of 9, Mukta was quite the budding artist. She stared long at the colour pencils in the store. She loved to draw and paint, but she never could do so nicely at school. You see, her class was full of children who would flaunt their newly bought watercolours. Each with smooth running textures, vivid in visual consistency. On the other hand, Mukta would dab a wet paintbrush at tiny buckets of dried-up paint. Not that they could not afford it, but her parents never understood why she would ever need a new set of paints when there was already a bunch of them at home.
Thus, Mukta never really got to understand why others had sunshine yellow and amber and golden yellow when all she could paint with was a pale, watery straw pigment. No, not all was bland; one of her classmates had permanently lent her a bottle of fluorescent yellow, the unwanted shade. So while the class came up with vibrant sheets of doodles and blotches, Mukta had successfully replicated vintage bills on postboxes, with greatly highlighted content in between. The art teacher was visibly horrified every time, and thus, Mukta got her only C on the report card. Art was a joke in her household.
People—older relatives—would come visit, and tease her, “Draw us a horse, Mukta…” and Mukta would shyly refuse. Her school projects lay on the table to be a subject of mockery. Mum and Daddy would join in the din, “These art activities are such a waste of time in school.”, “What do kids learn from this anyway?”. No wonder then that when Mukta told them she wanted the colour pencils, she was given the consolation of a better gift, and was asked not to pursue what was merely a social trend in school. Mukta was a clever girl. She had expected that answer. And perhaps, it was on a whim, this want of hers. These were that special kind of pencils— those which would blend into a watercolour-like consistency when painted over with water. It was nice to see them at work when Pranjal had made her memory drawing last week, and Pranjal had made sure that Mukta knew they were the best in the world. Nothing delighted Pranjal more than teasing Mukta about her poor choice in art.
Mukta had seen the price on the packet. A packet of 10 would have cost her 400, and her quick mind had informed her that it was a whopping 40 rupees a pencil. Pencils are supposed to cost 2 rupees, she knew. Or maybe 3, or 5 or 10. But 40?! There is no way Mummy would allow that. Maybe, Daddy would listen to her, if she begged him, but then he would also probably say that there were better things to purchase at that price. Her parents would always gift her something unwanted every year. Last year it was some kind of dress she had worn just twice until now. The year before that it was a football—or was it a basketball? What was a red ball used in, anyway? And they made sure that it seemed special. It was wrapped in golden paper and placed on a high shelf every year. The same one reused every year. Somehow the sparkling glitter was to add the “fairy” touch to it. As if Mukta cared.
“You’ll get a discount if you buy the set of 48.” She heard the shopkeeper tell another customer. Mukta did not know how to mentally calculate that, but that would be way over a thousand rupees for sure. But 48 colours! For Mukta, that was heaven.
Mukta’s birthday was coming up, and she hoped that Sachin Kaka would get her those pencils. Sachin Kaka was a very rich person, Mukta thought. He probably had brought 3 sets of those pencils for her daughter already. Hey! They were trending colour pencils. And she really, really hoped that his next birthday gift to her would be that set of 48 pencils.
And Sachin Kaka indeed bought her a nicely wrapped gift. It was a large, flat box. She just knew that it had those 48 pencils in it. Which is why when they were done with cutting the cake and playing games, she kept that gift aside on the table. She tore open the others first. There were dresses and napkins and toys. Nice, but now it was finally the time to open the grandest birthday gift of all time. She carefully removed the tape and pulled out the box. Her eyes wide open, her mouth drooling, she dragged it out to find… chocolate?!
Apparently, Swiss chocolate was a big deal. Expensive and delicious. But she wanted those pencils… Mukta had broken into tears. She refused to eat. She shut the door and sobbed and sobbed.
“Do your homework before you sleep!” her mother shouted from the living room.
Mukta was sad, but she knew she had to comply. Perhaps, she had grown old enough to understand reality. That not everything would be as she would want. All those people in the school were just living a fake life which would come face to face with hard reality one day or the other. Her parents were right, you cannot always get what you want and you shouldn’t buy anything you don’t really want. But she really wanted those colour pencils! Or maybe she did not, maybe it was just a ‘fancy’ feeling she had. She opened her artwork book and fetched her dull grey pencils.
It was then that she noticed a golden sparkle on the high shelf. That night was the night she created the first colourful masterpiece of her artist career, “Mummy, Daddy and Mukta.”