The Artiste

I once painted a beautiful scenery.

My friend advised me that I should erase out the sun because it affected her sensibilities of how “round” is defined.

I erased it, out of concern for my dear friend. As if sceneries can’t function without sunlight, I consoled myself.

My brother took a look at it and suggested that the river should not be as blue as it impacted his long standing fear of the dark.

I lightened it up till it was paper white. My brother was important to me, alright.

My neighbor said that such a dense bunch of trees seemed to signify closure, and it was a wrong message to send to the masses.

I couldn’t question my neighbor’s logic, so out went the bunch of trees.

I was left standing with a clean sheet of paper.

My friend made a paper boat out of it, while my brother threw it around like a makeshift paper rocket, and my neighbor, in a scramble for cleanliness, spit out his chewing gum into it and threw it into the garbage bin.

I was left standing, looking at the scene, thinking about my scenery, wondering whether I should move to a secular household, where my scenery will be left alone, with me and me alone.

Ref: The controversies surrounding the release of the movie Viswaroopam in January 2013.

An afternoon at sea

“It depends”, she says, to nothing and no one in particular. That seems to be an acceptable answer to the illustrious company drinking its coffee on that smoky patio. She stares out at the sea, unmindful of the discussion that ploughs forward, as her thoughts wind back to memories from a distant land.

It was not a forgettable trip. Well, not quite, for she doesn’t remember the details of the trip now. She knows they had gone to some beach, after a visit to some IT organization as part of an industrial training. Such “filler” visits were common back then, earning the class some credit points, subsidies and a day off from college.

She is losing track of the discussion now. Someone is directing a question at her. “Well, one has to see how it plays out,” she responds. That should suffice for now.

The beach was hot, April-hot. Lunch sharing was happening, like it used to in school. Only this wasn’t school. They couldn’t giggle in peace, all these big boys making fun and imitating them. It was intimidating, abnormal and unnatural.

Someone giggles. Another says, “Aapko kya lagta hai?” She snaps back to reality again with an appropriate response. “Aise hi random bolte hai yaar log. Kabhi kabhi samajh mein ni aata hai ki client kaun aur consultant kaun.”

“Enna romba petera?” was the first question one boy asked her at lunch. She didn’t understand. “What is peter”, she asked in return, only to be ridiculed further. Apparently, ‘peter’ referred to anyone who spoke a lot of English. ‘Uff, I hate them’, she murmured to herself while retreating further into her girls’ gang.

The tea is getting cold, the wind a little chilly today. Conversation has turned to the cricket match fiasco. Inane, coffee table conversation. At tea time, near the balustrade.

The girls’ gang looked unhappy what with she claiming that the boys had been at their unruly best. Not that she was the best judge of how the average boy behaved, but her opinion seemed to count there. That is when he came up to her, the guy who hadn’t ridiculed her, her voice or her language. The guy, she secretly liked. “Can I have some water?” he asked.

“How come you make and get food from home? You aren’t married right?”, someone asks her. “No, I am not”, she says. The distant sea rumbles a little, a storm seems to be brewing.