Wednesday, October 8, 2014

An erotica or whatsoever...

I have a problem of not being able to keep secrets. Not other’s but mine. I also have a problem of dwelling in the border-line of reality and imagination. And this “problem” I will today convert into an advantage and declare whatever you read further could be fact or fiction. So that if you meet me tomorrow and say, “so this is what you have been doing with your life, spoiling the reputation of our culture", I can confront you saying, “it was an imagination.”

I am not a person who gets caught up in looks and appearances. But he was chiseled by Michael Angelo himself. It is quite rude to turn your eyes off when a sculpture, a work of art takes interest in you and it is mutual.

It was very soon hence we met each other across a dinner table. All that the tradition had taught me, to speak softly, tenderly, lower eyes, be shy, not too given in, legs crossed in the perfect angle, neck bent in the perfect manner…I had forgotten. All I remembered is I am sort of an artist admiring a work of art with very intense eyes whenever I got a chance to steal a glance.

He was masculine but shy. Where the neck met the shoulders, the jaws met the ears, the arms met the elbows and diverged into a wonderful bulge you could look at for hours. And the blue veins that divide and subdivide through a translucent skin like rivers meandering and losing its way somewhere into the opacity, you could hear seagulls and the splashes of water.

The literature, art galleries, history and mythology are so overcrowded by beautiful women, their description and sexual power that being a woman you either have to be a lesbian or a very wide soul to see the world through different eyes to admire what naturally makes you admire.

We had walked a long way and chose to sit outside and though it was not summer the weather was still in the mercy of a wind to erase the heat gathered around the soil. Before he could settle down I could see droplets of sweat gather on his face. He constantly wiped off to show he was comfortable in my company despite whatever. A bad boy with an innocent face he was. He had gambled, beat up several people, stopped many fights, given bribe himself, even risked his life to prevent one--an interesting mix of right and wrong, good and bad.

An honest person that lies. Hear it again, “an honest person that lies.”

This is a combination that further put me in the loop into my own investigation of human nature. Needless to say we had sleepless night. The fire had reached the courtyard, gulped the garden, destroyed the façade. And when it reached the living room we sat together to talk.

The wind was so fierce that night. And just as you see in the movies there was no light. A few streaks of moonlight entered shuffling in the wind that was determined to blow everything up and we lay still unable to decide right from wrong. He had no guilt, a voice so easy and natural. His eyes did not shine in enthusiasm. He was calm, a river with its pack of seagulls when came across the hill or a forest very casually either wanted to drench it over or wanted to meander around. An approach I have seen so rare…so, so rare.

And since we are talking about art, it is only fair if the abstract mix of colours from the palette met the canvas. The paints must drip, splash, doodle, dribble, fall onto the floor, wash away the entire room, break the fences, carry you over, drag you to the bottom and then toss you to the sky.

A world where there was no form. You began walking on the beach and went so far that you cannot now differentiate where the horizon was, that divided land from water. Then when you hear distant sailors discuss their days, with that chitter chatter, faintly a line of reality is painted somewhere. This again dissolves and thickens and spreads to merge and be soaked into the canvas. You realize the canvas has its own plan with its edges, the texture, the capacity of it to soak the colour. Like how Michael Angelo looked at a rock and rather than thinking what he should make out of it knew what the rock wanted to become, the canvas always knew what was that unique mix and strokes and colour that should be revealed rather…

As the strokes then follow the hand and the hand guided by the effortless gesture…a song is composed on it, the lyrics of which is so familiar and the tune of it is something you have always heard for as long as you have lived or even further…under the night sky, when you ran around to chase the fireflies, in the depth of a pond when you drenched to spot a moss-flower… an afternoon when the whole world slept, you heard a distant bird call out a tune after a fixed duration.

In that haze of reality and abstract, a mother somewhere cradles a child. The heavy hands then gently fall over and again wake up with a moan from it to cradle further. A sleep unaware of the entire world and also a sleep wide aware of the responsibility that your baby is sleeping by your side...vulnerable and innocent under your care.

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