Different Strokes

A couple of deft, firm strokes curve the prim line into generous, laughing lips. Two small specks of white paint were all that were needed to transform the black, lifeless orbs into a pair of twinkling, mischievous eyes. The whole illustration took just inside of five minutes. A loud whistle of appreciation escapes your lips. Yet, on looking up, you find that nothing, nothing at all, has registered in the anxious face which is watching you intently. It's only when you nod your head, gesture with your eyes and form a circle with your thumb and index finger that the mouth stretches into a slow, shy smile.

Sitting in a typically tiny middle class house in the suburbs of Madras, in front of a cluttered, well scrubbed table which must be put to a million other uses by the family when not serving as a perfectly functional drawing board, with a chipped porcelain tile as his palette, he looks like any other struggling young artist. Sita Ramachariyalu, who signs himself as Sita Ram. It's his hands of course that you notice first. Long, slender and tapering which, as the cliche goes, are archetypal artist's hands. They perform, besides, yet another important function: they speak. As must his eyes — penetrating and luminous and not suprisingly the most striking feature in the thin face capped by a shock of curls. Sita Ram, you see, is both deaf and dumb. From birth. Perhaps you are already familiar with his paintings without really being aware of it. You must have, at some time or the other, flipped through a copy of Chandamama, India's oldest children's magazine. Juggle your memory a bit do you remember being amused at the spectacle of Akbar losing his regal composure and breaking into a hearty, plebeian laugh at the antics of the wily Birbal. Or may be it was one of those quaint short stories featuring animals which held your attention —the supercilious donkey, its nose (oh yes!) in the air, haughtily walking past the other animals. All these pictures have one thing in common — they bear the stamp of Sita Ram's excellence.

What makes Sita Ram so special? After all, there must be hundreds of other deaf and dumb artists who are as exceptionally gifted. Art, to Sita Ram, is not.merely a vehicle to convey his inner emotions, a platform to make a statement. It is a job like any other. Coming from an ordinary middle-class back ground, he has to work for a living. And as a magazine illustrator, he has to capture pictorially, as it were, the essence of the story.How does he do it? He takes home the manuscript along with the instructions of what he has to paint. Either his mother or his father reads the story and explains what exactly he is required to draw. The next day in the office, working on the guidelines provided by his parents, he completes his sketches.

There is a striking quality about all his works. The technique is bold and firm, and the lines are fluid and graceful. What really distinguishes him from other painters of his genre is his complete mastery over the brush. Even for the thinnest of outlines he never uses a pen. Only the brush, using it much like a sorcerer would a wand, conjuring pure magic. Says an artist with over twenty-five years experience, "Even after all these years, I cannot wield the brush so deftly. I've never seen him use a pen, even to define his outlines." Perceptive and alert to the inconspicuous mannerisms which so distinguish a person, he has the gift of unerringly catching the right expression to complement the mood of the story. Says a regular reader of Chandamama of yet another facet of his genius, "I adore his pictures of animals. Flawlessly proportionate even when they are cartoonish, and ...oh...so — cute!" Perfectly true. His pictures are just as they ought to be for children's books. Anthropomorphic, attributing humanised feelings to animals — a stupidly grinning donkey baring all its teeth, a disdainful pony, a cowering, cowardly puppy, a happy-go-lucky cuddly bear.Yet it cannot be all that easy. There are times when the illustration is not perfect. It requires period costumes or another nationality. Says a colleague, "He makes clucking noises, as if annoyed with himself and smites his fist on his forehead." Of course he doesn't take much time to rectify his mistakes.

For all his precocity and prodigious talent, he is curiously uninformed. Even about the contemporary art scene. He has never heard of any art movement, and 'isms' to him are but fancy incomprehensible words. In fact, he has studied only upto Std.V. It is amazing that without any formal education or training he has developed his own techniques.

Born in thetown of Rajamundry in Andhra Pradesh, nearly twenty-five years ago, Sita Ram is the youngest of four children. While his elder brother is perfectly normal, Sita Ram and his two sisters were born deaf and dumb. Since the town didn't have an institution for the deaf and dumb, all three of them were forced to attend a normal school. It was, however, impossible to study beyond Std. V. It was providential that Sita Ram's grandfather took him under his wing. Named after him, it was perhaps decreed that he would inherit his talent and follow his footsteps. A diploma holder from the JJ School of Arts, Bombay, Sita Ramachariyalu Sr. returned to his native town to take over as the principal of the Damerla Rama Rao Memorial Arts School and Gallery, Rajamundry. Recognising the innate talent in his grandson as early as he was only three, he began training him. Teaching him all that one could tell a mere child about lines, light, shade and colour. Unfortunately even this education was cut short by the untimely death of his grandfather. Before he entered his teens and before his grandfather could impart the wisdom of his vast experience and explain the legacy of the great painters. Under the tutelage of his grandfather's students, he acquired a diploma of sorts.

For a few years he did whatever odd job that came his way — painting educational aids and charts for the classroom walls. A cousin on a visit form Madras, astounded by his talent and appalled that he was wasting it illustrating records for lazy university students, decided to take him in hand. Sita Ram found himself in Madras and in the offices of Chandamama.

Many doors opened, yes, but only to be shut quickly even before he put a foot inside. For a gauche, diffident boy from a hick town, one who was deaf and dumb as well, the teeming metropolis was bewildering. And for the first time in his life he was painfully aware of the consequences of his lack of education. On joining the association of the deaf and dumb, he realised that most of his counterparts were school finalists and that some could even talk! (contrary to popular belief the deaf are not really dumb. It's only because they cannot hear and therefore do not know what sound really is, they do not exercise their vocal chords. Through training they can talk). His father regrets didn't have that he the foresight to shift to a bigger city when they were young. After coming to Madras, they explored all avenues, but Sita Ram and his sisters were found too old to attend school. The training, a long difficult process, begins as early as in the second year of a child.

Today, determined as he is to acquire some kind of education, a teacher comes to teach him English. Though the teacher himself is satisfied with the steady progress he is making, Sita Ram is impatient and dissatisfied. To him his best is not simply good enough. He sees himself as a burden to his parents who must accompany him wherever he goes, if only to act the interpreter. And even for the simplest of jobs he requires guidance from his parents. He shakes his head mournfully as if to say, "Tell me, which twenty-five-year old has a father carrying his portfolio around and playing the nursemaid." Says his father woefully," His lack of education has even stunted his artistic potential. It's his immaturity which prevents him from being a greater painter. He has had no exposure to the artistic world. His imagination has suffered." It's only now after visiting a few book shops in the city that Ram has seen good art books.But they are so prohibitively expensive that he can do nothing more than glance through them and place them back on the shelves.

Shy and introverted, he keeps to himself. Both at home and at work. Perhaps he is afraid of being teased, such experiences being not too uncommon. Says his mother, "He is obsessed with his future. And convinced that he is a burden to us. The whole day he either paints or studies English."

It is only in the company of his deaf and dumb friends that you see a different Sita Ram. Happy, cheerful and totally at ease with himself. Where he is really himself. An avid cricketer, he is a handy bowler in his team. A movie buff, he is an ardent fan of the Bachchan. Among the stars of the Southern ti nsel-vil le, there is, he believes, none to touch Rajnikanth for action-packed masalas. But for emotional dramas he would go for Kamal Haasan any day. And not suprisingly, he revels in cartoons, above all. Marvelling at the exquisite animations of Walt Disney and others and learning something new from them each time.

The sea which is just a stone's throw from his house often beckons him. And, no, it's not the immense artistic possibilities of the foamy waves striking the sandy shores which draw him like a magnet. The vast expanse of the inky, fathomless ocean sets the mood for contemplation. Standing at the edge of the sea, with the waves lapping at his feet, he dreams of the day he will become truly independent, the day he will carry his portfolio, without his father having to play the nursemaid. That and become as good a painter as his grandfather.