REMEMBRANCE OF THE THINGS PAST

There are so many stories about the painter Rekha Rodwittiya doing rounds in the art scene and many of them have by now gained the status of ‘Baroda fables’. When these stories are recounted by her friends and foes alike, she evolves out of them either as a fiery goddess or as a benevolent friend. Of course, there are many other stories that portray her as a trickster and prankster; in all of them she turns out to be the ultimate winner. I remember one of those stories narrated by an artist friend during early 1990s.

One day my friend and Rekha Rodwittiya went to attend an exhibition opening in Mumbai. They were supposed to board the same flight from Ahmedabad and both of them were having economy class tickets with them. My friend remembered that Rekha had been quite normal till she stepped in the premises of the airport. The moment they entered the lounge, Rekha transformed herself into a different personality. Her walking became an accentuated swagger, a Joan Baez song suddenly appeared in her lips. Her nose got and upward tilt and her eyebrows were arched to match any arrogance. Her stately figure emanated some kind of authority, which my poor friend could not understand. To cut short the story, Rekha was given a ‘business class’ treatment while my artist friend had to put up with the ‘economy class’ status.

Now Rekha recollects her youthful days: “…and the cosmopolitan flavour of the MS University contributed to an eclectic world of intermingling. Bobby-style knotted shirts, halter-necks, bell-bottoms, platform shoes; Rajesh Khanna Nehru-collared Kurtas in rainbow colours, go-go earrings and attitude, is what we all wore. At that age you never walk, you strut (italics mine); and most importantly, you think you know it all.” Rekha’s jovial retrospective self-critiquing proves that my friend’s story was not far from truth. When Rekha did it she knew that she was doing it.

That is the spirit of a fighter. And ‘….and they lived happily ever after’ is a book by Rekha Rodwittiya about her tryst with life and art. Eight short chapters and so many photographs judiciously culled from family albums make this book. Should we call it a book of confessions or a book of remembrance of the things past?  The former would be fallacious for this daughter of a fighter plane pilot and one of the pioneering women cricketers, each action of her life was a conscious decision hence nothing to confess. It should be called a book of remembrance of the things past and present too.

A la Marcel Proust, Rekha too is flooded with memories when she sits with a cup of tea. She remembers her parents, their family trees and she remembers her sister, pets and friends. Each chapter is a bold and beautiful revelation for the writer and reader. There are poignant moments especially when she speaks about her son, Mithun, who is a professional designer and model. There are experimental moments when she reveals her culinary skills. There are moments of admiration when she speaks of her partner Surendran Nair and friends. There are moments of self-realization when she narrates her experience as a student in London. There are pedagogical moments when she tries to give one or two lessons to the young generation of artists.

This book is very special for several reasons. One, it accompanies Rekha’s latest solo show ‘Once Upon a Time’ and functions as an alternative ‘catalogue’. Two, Rekha does not speak about her works directly instead she narrates the contexts of her works in general. Three, this is not the chronicle of a winner, but of a fighter who is a diehard optimist. Four, though Rekha does not claim any literary excellence to her writing, all eight chapters are samples of a memoir written with literary dexterity par excellence. Five, Rekha Rodwittiya is perhaps the first Indian woman artist to talk about Alice Walker and Maya Angelou, Dachau Concentration Camp in Germany and Robben Island in South Africa.

Besides providing one with a good reading material ‘…and they lived happily ever after’ gives a chance to peep into the author’s personal albums. Looking at the lighter side of it, this book is a visual reference material to know how artists look like before and after material success. I do not know how such a wonderfully produced book has spelt ‘Damien Hirst’ as Damien ‘Hearst’. A minor error in the proof but sticks out so prominently as it is a book written by an artist. I feel that the publishers should send a copy to all the regional art colleges in India so that the art students can see success does not come just like that. And many more books like this should be published to enrich the contemporary Indian art scene.