Opinion Artist,but at what price?

To fulfill my dream of becoming an artist,I convinced my mother to buy me Air India’s Rs 2,700 youth fare Delhi-Paris-Delhi ticket. In those days,the Indian government allowed $8,and $200 called FTS,for travelling abroad. I could only afford $8. To collect the foreign exchange,I had to take my passport to the Reserve Bank.

Being unsure how to handle things,I asked a Kolkatan classmate to accompany me. Our art college had two types of students; villagers like me,shy and scared of making mistakes,and the savvy Kolkatan who knew everything. My classmate insisted on taking Kolkata’s only automatic elevator at the Reserve Bank,but I refused. I’d been observing small town people like me bravely trying to get on,hesitating,failing and timidly taking the staircase; I didn’t want to become the public laughing stock too. But little did I know then that on disembarking in Paris,I’d face a similar problem. This time it was a flat,automated moving road inside the airport terminal. With a thumping heart,I awkwardly put my leg on it and retreated in fright. Several Air India air hostesses passed me by without paying any attention. Suddenly a French woman appeared,held my hand,and taught me how to walk on a road that moves relentlessly.

Underprivileged people don’t have much choice in life,so they struggle to take whatever is easily available. For 95 per cent of such people,it’s very difficult to take a visionary step. As an art student with no promising future,I had to take a big risk to venture out. I left for Paris with $8 in my pocket,courage in my heart,an ambition to be an artist and earn to improve my family’s living condition. I didn’t know a soul in Paris,but had heard of a Bengali scientist called Dr CK Pyne who didn’t know me at all. I arrived at Dr Pyne’s laboratory on a cold November day. I’ll never forget his incredible generosity. He heard my story and gave me shelter without questioning who I was; it turned out he was an art lover too. Had he been on holiday that day,I don’t know where I’d have been today.

Living in Dr Pyne’s 13th District apartment in rue Champs de l’Alouette,I went out the next day to buy toothpaste. Dr Pyne gave me 300 francs,saying I could repay him when I started earning. At the supermarket,I made gestures of cleaning my teeth and was shown Colgate. But I wanted to buy something different. So I made my movements more vigorous and people directed me to another shelf in the store. I returned with a large sized toothpaste tube. After dinner,I opened the packet and found the tube integrated with a brush that was round and like a sponge. When I squeezed it,the paste came onto the brush. I kept brushing but it gave out no lather and left a waxy feel in my mouth. I was shy to ask Dr Pyne about this toothpaste but mentioned how different toiletries were in France. “I’ve seen your purchase in the toilet,I hope you haven’t put that into your mouth,” he said. When I asked why,he said I had bought shoe polish.

Every day I would run around looking for a job. In December 1973,I met a man in Alliance Française who promised a job if I met him the next day at 3 p.m. The place of my appointment at Pigalle in north Paris was about 8 km from Dr Pyne’s house. When I reached and entered a house in a small lane; everything looked quite bizarre. A large room was separated into cubicles with flowing curtains. I peeped in and found couples in each of them. It was a brothel. I was petrified and quickly went out and stood by the staircase. An old lady came and explained that I should be in front at the lane,from 3 p.m. to 4 a.m.. My work would be to bring people from the road to the room,and I would get 25 francs per day,that was Rs. 37 then. I could start right away,she told me,or come tomorrow. I said I’ll come the next day.

I told Dr Pyne I’d got a job but didn’t explain further and he didn’t ask either. The next afternoon,I boarded the metro and dozed off for a bit. As the metro changed tracks,the jerk sent shivers down my spine and I hastily got off. The discomfort I’d been feeling told me this was not the purpose of my coming to Paris. At that time I didn’t even know there was a professional called pimping. I walked home and didn’t return to Pigalle. I decided this opportunity was not right for me. This is the first episode of my life’s journey from Kalipodo Dey’s dramatic sales pitch in Kolkata’s local train to the trauma I underwent in the Paris metro,brooding over a pimp’s job.

Shombit Sengupta is an international creative business strategy consultant to top management. Reach him at

http://www.shiningconsulting.com