His years in the Fine Arts College, Mumbai, were like a lost dream now. Hours of discussion with the classmates, asking their professors about the points which seemed to be significant in a particular painting, discussing about the colour combinations, finishing their hamburgers in the college canteen in hurry, trying to paint something which would draw the attention of both fellow classmates and their teachers, being inspired by the great masters of the past, all seemed to have vanished in last two decades. How he would sit for hours in front of the replicas of Van Gough’s classics, and how he would be submerged in the lines of Picasso’s works!

He was twenty when he had left the college; for his father’s untimely demise left him with no other choice. His old mother had been sick for years and his father was the only earning member in the family.

After the untimely death of his father, it was impossible for him to pay the college fee, and consequently he began to look for a job. He went from office to office but no one seemed to have any kind of work for an undergraduate from a Fine Arts College. He tried to sell some of his paintings but there were no buyers, so he decided to sell them on the pavement. During his student life, he had painted about fifty pieces and he knew that he was an exceptional artist but lack of marketing skills forced him to sell his works for a few thousand rupees. One by one, he sold all his paintings to foreign tourists and collected about fifty thousand rupees. The money was enough to survive for a few months for the mother and son but his mother’s sickness was the problem he was worried about. The medicine cost was beyond his power and he approached a few charities and got some financial help.

Besides being a wonderful painter, Raman was a very good actor and he used to act in the plays in the college and in small theatres.

One evening, when he came back home, he found that his mother was quite serious. He arranged a taxi and rushed her to the nearest hospital. She had been suffering from a chronic lung disease. Raman spent thousands of rupees but he was unable to save her.

After the death of her mother, he decided to sell their small house. There were only two rooms in the house but he knew that he would be able to get good price in the market, because land prices were sky-rocketing in Mumbai.

Loaded with the money, he left Mumbai and took the train to New Delhi.

Sitting in his wheel chair, thinking about the past two decades, he felt some relief that he had succeeded to live as he wished. Twenty years had passed in the vicinity of Red Fort in Delhi. Tourists would flock to the handicapped artist to get their sketches painted. Raman was the master of his art and he talked a lot with his customers. Besides drawing the sketches of the people visiting the Red Fort, he would keep the replicas of the masterpieces on display. In past twenty years he had earned millions in this way. People pitied him and gave him more than he demanded. He was happy that people loved physically handicapped artist.

When asked about his physical deficiency, he would answer that the lower part of his body had been paralyzed in a car accident.

This morning he had sold a Picasso to a German tourist. He had paid him three thousand dollars for the fake Picasso masterpiece. Raman was delighted because everything was in his favour.

He was forty years old and he was planning to get married the following year.

It was his last day in front of the Red Fort. He had saved enough money to live comfortably with his prospective wife in France. At about 7:00, he collected his things and called a boy to carry those things to his car parked in the parking lot. The boy helped him, and after about ten minutes he was in his car, specially designed to be operated only with hands.

He stopped his car in front of a small house in a posh locality in North Delhi. He had bought that house about ten years before. The neighbour sympathized with the handicapped painter.

They did not know that he had already sold that house and the following morning he would not be found in that house. His girl friend was waiting for him in France.

Once inside the house, he folded the wheel chair and locked it in the car garage. He was walking on his feet. He had successfully be-fooled them for two decades.

After about two hours, he dialed the property dealer.

“I have packed everything and I am waiting for the money,” said Raman on phone.

“I will be there in an hour,” a voice answered.

After about two hours, dressed in a white three piece suit, Raman, our artist, was on the main road. He had sold his car with the house. He hailed a taxi and ordered the driver to take him to the airport.

He was smiling and humming a tune.

“Are you going abroad, sir?” the driver asked.

“Yes, my friend. I am going forever,” said Raman, lighting a cigarette.

“Sir, I recognize you. I have seen you at the Red Fort. How did your legs…?”

“Forget about the legs. They did not like me when I was walking on my legs but when I seated myself in my wheelchair; they showered money on me…”

The driver was confused but he continued, “It means you could walk all those years?”

“Yes, my friend, but they did not like my legs.”

“You are a real artist, Sir. “

“Yes, I am a real artist, that is why my girlfriend is waiting for me in France,” smiled Raman.

The taxi stopped in front of the main entrance of the airport. Raman gave him a handful of currency notes and he smiled when he saw the surprised expression on the driver’s face.