| Heritage resorts attract many kinds of travellers, but who would have thought that an erstwhile hunting lodge near Bikaner could house a posse of artists in temporary residence? |
| Led by gallerist Vickram Sethi, the sun-dappled courtyard of Gajner runs amok with serious painters whose signatures alone could help them set up a healthy retirement fund. That some of them are actually past the age of retirement matters not a little to their work. |
| "See," hisses my wife, who is first to spot them, "that's Manu Parekh." The remains of a hearty breakfast are spread before us. "You're hallucinating dear," I say, "maybe the fruit juice has fermented." |
| "And that," my wife ignores my remark, "is his wife Madhvi." I look in the direction she's indicating. "I concede it looks like them," I agree, "but it isn't. What could they be doing here?" |
| What they are doing in Gajner, as it turns out, is attending an art camp. And yes, it is the Parekhs, rubbing illustrious shoulders with Anupam Sud and Gurcharan Singh, with Seema Gurraiya and Subhash Awchat and a half dozen others from the pantheon of high art. |
| "This is incredible," I exclaim, "now we can actually see their works in progress." Wrong, as it turns out, for we've only chanced upon them on their last day in Gajner. |
| "But we could buy their works," my wife eggs me on, "for surely here they might want to sell their work for half the price, or perhaps even a quarter." "Even at a tenth," I assure her, "we couldn't afford their canvases, and that's if they agreed to sell in instalments." |
| Our prospects dim further when we learn that the legit owner of the paintings is Vickram Sethi who, he informs us, has no intention of undervoicing them and will retail only for the highest value they command at exhibitions in Mumbai. |
| "The only thing to do since you can't afford to buy me a painting or two," retorts my wife, "is to use guile and charm them into gifting us a canvas or two." "Why would they want to do that?" I ask. |
| "Because we admire their work," says my wife with steely resolve, "watch how I have them eating off my fingers." And with a snap of those very fingers, she heads off in their general direction. |
| I leave my wife be, happy to watch the paintings instead. But from the corner of my eye I can see my wife engage the artists in animated conversation, laughing perhaps a little too sycophantically. She informs Bharati Prajapati her colours are adorable, only to be told that the canvas she's looking at belongs to Shuvendu Sarkar. |
| "Ooh, I love the horse, it's adorable," she says to Sunil Das, who sits tiredly before his canvas. "It isn't a horse," Sunil Das says resignedly, "I paint only bulls." "And very good ones too," agrees my wife, but Sunil Das has disengaged himself from the conversation. |
| Later, over tea, she tells me they're all impressed by her knowledge of their work and with patience she might just get them to do her sketches, drawings or even small canvases. |
| "I think they're humouring you," I point out, "since they're all leaving Gajner early morning and have so little time." "But look," she points, "they are doing drawings" which, in fact, happens to be the case. |
| Unfortunately, the sketches, doodles and other miscellaneous works are handed to the care of another art admirer right before our eyes. "I'm sure," my wife turns bitterly to me, "they were meant for me, it's probably just that the artists forgot what I looked like and gave them to that other woman instead of giving them to me." |
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