Copyright © 2007 Sunanda Chatterjee. All rights reserved.

"You need a darker blue for your sky," said my big sister, a long finger pointing at my watercolor.

"No," I said, satisfied with my work.

She stood behind me, hands on her hips, her oiled black hair braided tightly with colorful ribbons, as was mine. We wore identical dresses which we called frocks, her long gangly legs contrasting against my chubby-stubby limbs. While I was the Follower, who shadowed her every step, she was the Innovator and the Entrepreneur, inventing lots of unique games and activities. Usually inseparable, we shared all common interests except for painting which I loved, but at which she wasn’t very dexterous. If I wished to take some time out of our fabulous deeds and just sit and draw, she’d become somewhat despondent, and if I’m not totally mistaken, lonely. She’d tell me what to draw or how to color, but in the end, she knew I preferred to do this alone. I had joined an art class during summer and she was left to her own resources.

Suddenly she said, "We are going to organize a painting competition. We’ll charge the competitors money to participate. If enough people come, we can buy that stuffed animal set we’ve always wanted."

She ordered me to make a flyer announcing the competition, with a dramatic wave of her hand:

(for all kids ages 7 to 13 yrs)

Paper provided. Bring other supplies.

Entry fee: Rs. 2 per entry.

(No restriction on number of entries)

June 24^th, 9 AM

Organized by Joshi Sisters

Venue: 12B Street 20, Sector X.

I drew a fancy rainbow-colored design around the writing, not unlike a scroll. Two hours later I displayed my work proudly and she told me we needed to make six more just like that, this being before the age of photocopiers. As her ardent disciple, I got busy trying to complete the flyers, for the competition was scheduled to be on the next Sunday.

We put up the flyers on lampposts and fences. My sister even read out from one, right in the playground, in her booming clear voice.

Anticipating a substantial turnout from the local kids, we bought large sheets of drawing paper and cut them into 16 by 12 inch pieces. My mother, very tolerant of our enterprises, had made our dining table and living room coffee-tables available to the young artists. She even made a large jug of lemonade, free for the contestants.

It was 9 AM on June 24^th, and only my little brother had shown up, holding a Rs. 2 note in his chubby little hands. Always desiring to participate in our activities, he somehow managed to get under our skin. However, money was money, and my sister grudgingly gave him a piece of drawing paper and told him to draw a sunset. He said he’d rather draw a snake, and pointed to the flyer: Choose your own topic. A frown furrowed my sister’s well-shaped brow, but she acquiesced. My brother soon settled down and drew the largest meanest snake known to mankind, with vicious fangs and a red forked tongue, which was directed at two girls, who, I’m forced to admit, looked much like me and my sister.

By 9:15 AM, my sister became nervous and told me I must participate too. I didn’t have any money, having spent my last bit on candy, so she deposited two rupees in the large blue clear-glass flask my mother had provided.

"The flask shouldn’t look empty," said my sister. Filled with a total of four rupees, the flask was placed on a stool by the doorway, and my sister stood guard. She told me I’d be allowed to paint after 10 AM, but only if less than twenty people showed up.

At 9: 30, three kids from my little brother’s class showed up, paid their fees and settled at the living room coffee-table to paint. One boy, whose shirt was cross-buttoned, with his vest showing from the neckline and belly showing from the bottom, splashed his paint-water on his picture and on the floor, amid cries of dismay. My sister hurriedly spread newspaper on the cold stone floor and told the weeping boy he’d get another piece of paper, but that would be his last.

By 9:45, fifteen kids from seven to thirteen years showed up clutching their boxes of paints and brushes. We handed out the paper. The kids got to work. They painted beaches, mountains, planes, houses, birds, and animals. Some were actually very talented. One small buck-toothed boy wearing thick glasses, whom none of us recognized, drew a fire-breathing dragon. Because there were only nineteen contestants, my sister told me I must paint too. I painted a black and white scene of a sailboat in full moon. The truth was, while making the flyers, I’d let my paints dry, and the only good tube I had was of black paint.

At noon, my sister, who was growing restless with inactivity, told everyone their time was up. My little brother had already gone off to play cricket with his friends. A gracious host, my sister handed out candy to the participants. We had actually made some profit, because the paper cost us only Rs. 12. The kids left one by one after asking when the winners would be announced. We shooed them off, not having decided what to do with twenty wet and colorful pieces of paper once the fun was over. We hadn’t announced any prize money or incentives, after all. Besides, Mother was cooking some delicious thing in the kitchen and we were hungry.

While we spent the next week dreaming about the stuffed animal set we’d buy with the profit we’d made, the kids started asking us when the winners would be announced. The dragon-drawing stranger was particularly pesky. We told them some paintings hadn’t dried yet, and it would be a while before anything was done. We hadn’t realized that kids were really serious about this. Maybe the profit would need to be spent on prizes. When it became clear that they wouldn’t leave us alone until we had the entries judged, we decided to take action.

We took all the paintings to Mr. Basu who was a self-proclaimed artist and lived down our street. As we waited in Mr. Basu’s living room for him to finish his shower, his perky Pomeranian, who didn’t seem to like us, barked and snapped at my feet. We climbed on the couch and stood staring at Mr. Basu’s oil-paintings on the walls. I was amazed to see a painting of semi-nude nymphs sitting on rocks in the sea, hands on heads provocatively stroking their luxuriant hair. My big sister covered my eyes with her long bony hands. When Mr. Basu came out, she asked if he would be the judge for our little project. Sensing his reluctance in getting involved with childish activities, my sister came up with the proposal that if he judged the paintings, he got to be the Chief Guest for the Exhibition.

"What exhibition?" I mouthed the words soundlessly.

Mr. Basu accepted the big responsibility jovially. But when he took over three weeks to judge the entries, we became really impatient. The kids had started asking us if this was all a hoax. The paint-water-spilling cross-buttoner friend of my little brother demanded his money back. My sister told him his money was used for the extra drawing papers he had used for his painting; he’d get his picture back soon.

Finally we got enough courage to go to Mr. Basu’s house again and ask that he hurry up with the judgment; the natives were getting restless. All this time, the profit we’d made sat in the blue clear-glass flask in my sister’s cupboard. Neither she nor I had the guts to spend it.

The next week Mr. Basu announced the winners. My little brother got a Consolation prize. I didn’t even get an honorable mention. The First Prize went to my friend Roma, who’d painted a sunset that, to me, didn’t look authentic. My sister told my little brother he should have listened to her and painted a sunset. But he was happy with his Consolation Prize, although what that would be, hadn’t been announced yet.

Now came the task of organizing the exhibition. This time my sister made me and my little brother make the flyers:

July 31^st at 6 PM

At 12B Street 20, Sector X.

Winners will be announced

(Painting Competition held on June 24^th)

Bring guests

We also made a frilled circular paper badge saying "Chief Guest’ for Mr. Basu. On the evening of July 31^st, there was excitement and anticipation in the air. We cleared out the garage, tore down the wooden gate, and pinned the paintings everywhere: on the fence, on the garage walls, near the entrance gate to our house. We bribed our big brother to put on lights outside so people could come and see the exhibition, in return for doing his chores for a week. Then we went to the store and bought prizes.

By 6 PM, the families of our participants started showing up. Some even waited for Mr. Basu, our Chief Guest, who trotted in with his Pomeranian. The buck-toothed fire-breathing dragon-drawer’s mother asked Mr. Basu why he didn’t think the dragon deserved a prize. I didn’t wait to hear his reply; his dog still didn’t like me. My sister and I got busy inviting random people walking in our neighborhood to see our wonderful exhibition. We gave out the prizes: a pen-set, a set of paint brushes, a book and other odds and ends.

Although the blue clear-glass flask was now empty, overall, my sister and I thought the whole thing had been a tremendous success. The entire neighborhood would remember it forever, the two enterprising sisters, the competition, the entries, the judge, the exhibition.

Last month at my elementary school reunion, I asked my long-lost friend Roma if she remembered our painting competition from thirty years ago, when she’d got the prize I deserved.

She asked, "What competition?"