Doubles and art

 The world knew Bobby for his doubles. From his bustling stall near the corner of French Street and Ariapita Avenue, he was a fixture, a large, smiling man with a laugh that rumbled like a distant engine. His hands, swift and sure, would slather chickpea curry on two soft bara, dust it with sauces and pepper, and wrap it in paper before you could blink. "A little extra for you, darling," he'd say, his voice a warm melody. He lived well, his joy as abundant as his frame.

But Bobby’s creativity was not confined to the alchemy of cumin and turmeric. Tucked beside his cash box was a small, oilcloth pouch. Inside were a few nubs of charcoal, a worn sketchbook, and a handful of stubs of pastel. Bobby was an artist.

He did not wait for a studio or the right light. He painted in the lulls. Between the lunch rush and the evening crowd, he would wipe his hands on his apron, pull out his charcoal, and capture the old man playing draughts under the samaan tree. The swift, fluid lines would dance across the page, capturing a story in a single gesture.

One morning, after the last customer had gone, his friend Raj watched him sketch two children chasing a chicken. "Bobby, man, you good, yes. You should get a proper studio, do a big painting."

Bobby chuckled, not looking up from his page. "Why I need a studio, bro? The world right here. The light is good, the subject moving." For Bobby, the idea of waiting for a "right moment" was as absurd as waiting for a specific customer to start selling doubles. The moment was now. The canvas was anywhere.

On Sundays, the stall was closed, and Bobby went to Maracas Beach. He didn't just go to swim or eat bake and shark. He went to paint. He’d sit on the warm sand, his large frame a comfortable mountain, and his sketchbook would fill with the crashing azure of the waves, the elegant arc of a pelican, the vibrant stripes of a beach umbrella.

A tourist once stopped, watching the scene materialize from the pastel stubs in Bobby’s hand. "You're so talented," she said. "You should be in a gallery."

Bobby smiled, his eyes crinkling against the sun. "The gallery have me right now," he said, gesturing to the vast, open sky and the endless sea. "Is a limited-time exhibition."

He wasn't being clever; he was stating his philosophy. His creativity flowed as effortlessly as the ocean breeze, and he saw no reason to dam it up for a future that may never come. The sizzle of his fry pan was his muse as much as the sound of the waves. The vibrant chaos of the market was his masterpiece as much as any canvas.

Bobby lived well because he understood a simple truth: his art wasn't something he did; it was a way of seeing, a way of being. He bloomed freely behind his food stall, and he bloomed freely on the beach, his spirit as expansive and uncontained as the Trinidadian sky.