The basement

-Upama Pant, ME (2018)

It had been raining the entire day. Monsoon in the capital for me has never been a relaxing sight. My mom sat in the couch sipping her chiya—the best way to tackle the gruesome weather while my dad and I just relished the smell. We have never been a tea person anyway. What this weather did however, was bring my family together. I loved it because it happened quite rarely considering our busy lives.

Skipping the moment, I sometimes get away to the basement of my house where I would remain unbothered with the chaos of my surrounding. I have continued to treasure it since my dad tore down the cellar and handed it over for me to create my studio. It has never had the best interiors but that part was more welcoming than the other rooms. Even the spider webs sparkled when a gleam of ray passed through the rusty ventilator or the hardened acrylic palettes. Yet, I loved to be amidst the fragrance of the freshly opened paint containers. Dancing along to John Mayer holding my brushes as my counterparts, and the music reverberating through the wooden walls would make it my acoustic dream. All these formed an aesthetic environment for creating a masterpiece.

There are things in life that needs to be done to stay alive and the others that we stay alive for. Art was somewhat similar to me. It sustained my sanity. While I was studying those bulky physics books, I needed to doodle on the pages, or draw cartoons on the edges. Art meeting engineering was important for me. I have encountered people who tell me those subjects were never meant to go hand in hand.  In the basement amongst all the chaos, I wondered if there always needs to be a never fulfilling gap between the two most intriguing aspects of my life.

I thought people were scared of having fun while doing something so intricate. Why was this sort of academic packaging sold to me? Was it because the solemnity of the subject would fade away if I enjoyed it? Well maybe it was never meant to easier. Anyway, the concept ridiculed me. As a science student, I struggled gaining insights, especially due to such orthodox thoughts. As an artist, I struggled to communicate, partly because art was never considered a noble pursuit.

Nonetheless, I found both of them equally aesthetic.

However, the question still remains. The hand so elegant with the strokes, would it ever get used to those adamant machinery? The answer as I have felt is yes. Smeared paint or grease, it was just the same. It was all and just about the essence. The fact that I enjoyed while I was at it. I found my significance. I found my purpose. Probably.

Even now, the hinges here squeaks and the canvases hang at jaunty angles. Besides, what also remains the same is the brush strokes that tries to match the pace of that John Mayer song. Or the people who tell me studio art and engineering can never meet. But instead of sitting them over for a debate, I smile and go back down to my basement where I try to prove them wrong. Holding the same old brushes, playing the same John Mayer songs.