Ritu Bhatia is a great friend. There was a sparkle in her eyes when I walked into the room.
We talked about things without filters—things like life and death, man and woman, sex and sexuality, art, touch and massage, and a host of such issues. None of these conversations were conclusive, nor was there an obligation to concur, yet, we liked what each had to say about things.
Ritu was also a masseuse, a very good one and very selective too. Her touch had a soothing, healing equality as she was a repository of good energy. Touch is a mode of energy transfer.
One thing is very clear—she was very clear about things. Her views were formed, and informed by scientific temper, mostly. She was good at many things, and she did many things, was an author, a journalist, a baker par excellence, and more.
Fakeness nauseated her and frankness was engaging. She was forthright, some would say to a fault, to me was a quality I admired very much. She was my sounding board. Her candidness was exemplary for it was not confined to others, but also about her own state of affairs. A very curious person, and I was curious about her curiosity.
Ritu had many friends who were outspoken about their sexuality. Perhaps, that requires a certain clarity, acceptance, openness, candidness, and intrepidity. They had made strong choices in life, driven by truth as they experienced, at least weren’t in denial. We shared our experiences, and our tryst with life, episodically. We collaborated on some projects at an intellectual level.
Ritu was also a masseuse, a very good one and very selective too. Her touch had a soothing, healing equality as she was a repository of good energy. Touch is a mode of energy transfer. A massage session would exhaust her, and it would take hours to recoup. I’d argue with her: why do you invest so much in people?
My preoccupation with documenting humanity without qualification of clothing interested her. It’s also a mode of energy transfer between my subject and me–without the tactile connection. I had many prolific conversations with Ritu about which of the two senses is more potent—sight or touch?
Touch by far is more potent a sensation than sight, while eyes have an advantage, it lets you be intimate, connected without touch, and gives a holistic perspective, that’s possible only if there’s some distance. Touch requires proximity, which from my point of view would be too close; and the observer runs the risk of coalescing with the observed experience. Though, in the quantum world there’s no distinction between the observer and the observed, both are intertwined in the perceived reality.
Such prolonged conversations inspired me to experiment with documenting people in the nude by way of sketching. To me nudity is a process, I like to believe that I read bare bodies like a book, and, invariably, my subjects not just bare their body to my probing eyes but also their mind. I’m inspired enough to draw. I draw what I feel that vaguely resembles what I see.
Ritu inspired me to draw people in a dark room to isolate the sight as a sense organ. Also, I was obliged to draw some of my subjects, who were open to experimentation, blindfolded. I was connected to them only by touch. The sketches I ended up drawing didn’t resemble my subjects, but strangely, did represent them in some cryptic ways. One of my subjects was of the view that her sketch, so made, resembled how she’d appear in her dreams. Perhaps, we appear differently in our dreams. But how would we know it’s us for there’s no mirror in dreams reflecting our being to us. Self is a mere experience and I tried with some success to confine that experience into a form by way of drawing.
I owe so much to Ritu, and regret that now I will be able to meet her only notionally. Perhaps, in dreams. She was brave in face of a debilitating disease, detested sympathies, empathy was silently communicated. The disease could never hamper her never-say-die spirit. Her benign presence is now cloaked in her lingering absence. But she’s very much around.
She respected her partner, Gautam. He had such a profound presence in her life, her house. I was introduced to him by way of his artwork showcased in Ritu’s living room. After many years, she came back to live with Gautam—it was a homecoming. In her new space, I felt a certain continuity for she was good at keeping things going despite prolonged absence. Perhaps that explains why I feel her so vividly a week after her mortal demise.
When I met her son, Ilan, for the first time—though I know so much about him that he’d be embarrassed to know—at her memorial service, I found so much of Ritu in him–the same intent eyes. We decided to be friends—and here too there’s a firm line of continuity.
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