Symphony in Stone

He was six months old, he says, when his father died. His mother was only twenty two with two children to look after him and his sister, who was six. Fifty miles out of Bhubaneswar, there was land and a small house. But, working on the land was not easy. There were relatives too- but they began to swindle and exploit a helpless woman who could not manage the land, house and family alone.

Behind the village was a small hill of red sandstone. It belonged to the government, but, for the village, it was conveniently the land of Lord Jagannath. Lord Jagannath was bountiful and did not grudge the stones and rocks that people took home. Here they fashioned the stone into small chaklas. The young widow too began to craft the stone- rough, circular stone implements, that later improved with time and skill. Somehow the meager livelihood was established.

The growing boy found escape in films- whatever he could save; he spent on every new release. There was a small railway station from where he caught the train to the nearest cinema hall. But, one day, he was getting late, and was in a hurry to get home. In his haste, he jumped off from the running train. He slipped, and his leg got caught on the tracks. The moving train severed his left leg from his body.

Life changed. He was isolated, unable to move and was cut-off from friends. His sister married and left home, and he sat at home and watched his mother work the stone. He picked up the craft from her and continued the family profession, sculpting images to sell. As he grew older, his mother and other relatives suggested that he should get married. A girl was found ten years his junior. The wedding took place. But after four children the marriage failed. To make things worse, as though to bring home his lameness and imperfection, his wife took a lover, then, lovers.
Finally, she ran away leaving Sharat to fend for himself and the children.

His sister, overburdened with five children of her own, was unable to help. Sharat’s life and that of his daughters became an enormous burden, and Sharat grew to hate all women.

Late into the night when the world slept, and he couldn’t, he nursed his hatred of women. The angry sound of hammer on stone resounded in the silence. He hated his wife, his sister, and even his daughters. Then with the dawn, as he began work, he lovingly chiseled away at each curve, each line of shape and form on the stone. His skilled fingers engraved an ornament there, the graceful sweep of hair, and lips parted in speech. The smile on his softened face was lovely. Every detail was curved with care and perfected with passion. For though Sharat still hated all women he spent his days and nights making statues after statues of the female form- women with unforgettable faces of beauty, grace, love and compassion.