Dil Beparwah | ✔

twenty nine

||CHAPTER 29||
《¤》

┊A R V I K A┊

Bombay Auctions were my grandfather's guilty pleasure, or so I had heard. I had no memory of Dadaji, but he still had many admirers who wouldn't hesitate to share anecdotes of him from when he was alive. So even though I was mildly disappointed, I wasn't surprised to find Gaurang Sardesai at an uncharted sale event—a world renowned artist and Dadaji's childhood friend—or so he proclaimed. He looked different from the photos—frailer, wiser, less spontaneous and more sociable.

"Your grandfather was a spectacle at these auctions," the man recounted, chuckling to himself. "Chitrakaari ka cha bhi na aye, magar paintings ko khareedne ke liye woh kisi bhi hadd taq chale jatey thhe. He once bought one of my pieces for 20 lakhs!"

That particular painting was now one of Graphique's main attractions. Purchased in the 80s, it now had a market value of 3 crore rupees. That decade was his reckless period, and yet all that he left behind was jovial remembrances. "Daadi bataya karti thhi Dadaji ke iss shauk ke baremein. Khud unhone kabhi paint brush nahi utthaya, lekin paintings ko collect karne ke liye woh personally jaya karte thhe."

He tapped the cane stick in his hand, supporting himself to walk down the stairs. "Nasha," he said with some effort, waving off my help, "Nasha chadh gaya thha unhe. Summer of 97, the last time I saw him at an auction. A stereo from the 60s," he gestured with his palm, "itna sa hoga. The most expensive purchase he made that day. It was almost a tied bid. Par Indrajeet? Pachpan lakh. Sirf uss stereo ke liye."

That did bring a smile on my face—a memory I could reminisce with him. Daadi cherished that stereo till her last breath. It still sat in her old room, on the bedside table and didn't work anymore. I didn't have the heart to fix it again.

We stopped at the entrance of the hall where the auction was going to be conducted. Connoisseurs of antiques and genuine appreciators of art were few among the crowd of businessmen. "Aap bhi is auction mein hissa lene aye hai?"

With trembling hands, Mr. Sardesai unhooked his reading glasses from his kurta. His deteriorating health had been in the news for quite some time, so my surprise was pretty evident when he said, "Meri paintings ko vida karne aya hoon. You should come over sometime. Take care."

I watched him join one of the tables at the front. From what I recalled, Gaurang Sardesai never got married—which was statistically very common among the people from his profession, but he did have his timely musings, and it amused me that even at this age, he had a kind aged lady seated next to him.

"Ladies and gentlemen," the auctioneer tapped the mic on the podium. "Thank you for coming to the luncheon. Proceeds from this afternoon will be going to the charity..."

I proceeded towards our designated seat. Mia had booked us a table at the center, and yet Chirag Rana was nowhere to be seen. "Where is he?"

"The number's unreachable, but this area has network issues." Behind us, two tables to the left, Aryan had claimed a seat. His brainchild of an idea was going to be a failure if his uncle's con man didn't show up. Twirling his bidding card, he raised an eyebrow in my direction.

"Find a way to contact him," I spoke through my teeth. The dial phone never failed to make me anxious, it was even worse when it didn't do its fùçķìñg job.

"How much do we have for the first lot? Any bidders? Do I hear a ten lakh?"

"Fifteen!" A hand jutted between me and Mia, grabbing our bidding card.  The man pulled out a chair for himself, extending his hand to me. "Ms. Deewan."