I was in Kolkata on work for a day. As the day wore on, it became clear that I would need to stay for one more night. So I booked the company guesthouse for another night. But shortly after checking in there in the evening, I realised that most of the TV channels I could be interested in watching had not been subscribed to, and I had forgotten to bring a book that I could spend my time reading. All that I had to while my time away was a huge painting—about five feet by five feet—on one wall of the room. So I poured myself a drink and examined it.

The painting was full of shapes, all clearly defined. But what did these shapes represent? The only clue the painting provided was “Abhi 93” scrawled at the top left corner, and all it told me was that 15 years after the painter had done his job, some fool was sitting in a Kolkata guesthouse bedroom scratching his head over the painting.

I liked the work. I would not have minded having it up on a wall in my own home, though, I thought, the colours could have a bit more vibrant. Sure, beige has a place in our lives, but it should also know its place in life. This much and no more. And as I concentrated on the painting while pouring myself another drink, a few things began to fall in place. Three women, depicted in a very stylised fashion. Here were their necks and their jawlines. Yes, I had cracked it. Once I got the keys to the puzzle, lots of other stuff began to leap out at me—the flowing robes that the women were wearing, their long hair waving in the wind. I glanced at another wall of the room. There were two paintings there, but they were clearly paintings of fish. No riddle, no reason for the viewer to apply his mind, they were undemanding paintings. The artist had not challenged the world. Bloody conformist.

... contd.