Aj’s world

I love Tattoos.

And I love painting.

So today, the 20^th September 2009, when I decided to paint, I knew that the painting would impact all of my loved ones either badly or very badly.

But why the heck would a darn painting have a bad effect on my loved ones? Ah! Blame it on my choice of canvas and colours.

The exhale of colours felt very holy to me.

Hence I decided a physical purification was important.
Took a bath. Used the scrubber well to clean whatever clogged the skin.

And being fair skinned, the shine shone well.

Dressed in the towel, I headed towards my easel.

I let the towel fall. The canvas was ready.

I looked at the knife. Ready it was to sink into the canvas and flow.

The bath had softened my skin well. All I had to conquer was the first jab. The rest would be very easy.

I had no picture in mind. I just wanted to flow.

The sharp knife I held against my skin and pressed it hard.

It pierced the dermis layers and the blood oozed.

Umm the first spurt of colour. The canvas's lost virginity.

I celebrated both.

It pained me. Bad would be an under description.

You see, an unconscious stab is bearable. But a conscious one hurts the worst.

A painter would dip brush into his colours and paint. I was digging the canvas for my paint. What a feel. And so unique.

I continued the carving. Careful not to slash myself anywhere, for a nerve badly cut would mean my canvas would fade. I would die.

Death for self was acceptable, but not for my masterpiece.
I continued with my work. The white marble floor stood testament to the blood flow. To the world it was gory but to me, my creative flow.

It took me 20 minutes to complete the painting. But with so much blood on my canvas, it was impossible to see the outcome of my passion. The blood wouldn't stop. I looked like I had been de-skinned. And when the salty air from the open window blew against my skin, the pain became at its worst best. Worst best, ha, what a misnomer!

An idea struck. I ran to the beach outside and jumped into the sea.

It was salty and the best disinfect for my skin.

And the sand that it carried would get lodged into my skin and texture my painting.

It's been six days since I last painted.

My canvas seems beautiful. It's "curing".

No artist, I say, would have lived his art like I.

My mother almost fainted when she saw me in my artistic state.

My wife is still to recover from the shock.

Every time we try to make love, she fears a spurt of blood.

Again the sheets have to be changed.
Again the reminder of my painting days.

Again the pain.

Everyone hates me for what I did.

The onlooker adults gasp and children cry seeing me.
And I boast my painting is an eye catcher.

"Andheri East, Poonam Nagar?", I asked the rickshaw wala. He nodded a yes.
A pleasure indeed for at close-to-noontime, these guys would not even want to venture to that side of the city.

The rickshaw chugged, soon to be stuck in a traffic jam.

Others mind jams; I don't, for it gives me an opportunity to study faces, people and surroundings. So even though pleasure it was not for me, pain it wasn't too. Going with the flow is what it was.

So there my eyes bulged to capture the road trip.

Motorists trying to accelerate their bikes, trying to vent their frustration.

Couple trying to make the best of the available moment and so much more.

And then I saw her.

At the footpath was her house, a house I may dare to call, for it was no more than big sheet of soiled bed-sheet, resting on a few pegs on one side, dug deep into the ground. The other side was tied to an adjacent wall.

She was beautiful. A child, I assume of say 8.
Dusky, copper toned skin with clean sparking teeth.

Approximately three feet tall, she had her little brother for company.

The little brother was just a lucky guess, for I saw no one else around them.

This little tot would run around and Ms. Pretty would bring him back to the safety of the tent, scolding him gently and then laughing away merrily, thus encouraging the little tot to run more, get re-scolded and have a hearty laugh. What a sight I say, what a sight to see. I was so glad the girl was getting a carefree existence for soon she would be on the streets trying to protect her modesty or give the junta a sneek peek of what she has, and in the process at least earn a few rupees extra.

Oh there I drift pardon me please.

In the midst of this play, a lady crossed the road.
She had a scornful look on her face and by the way she walked towards the children, I feared she was going to scare them away from their abode. But wrong I was .

She reached one side of the tent.

Removed her slippers.

My heart pounded fast. Was she going to hammer them with the pair?
Hell, no. No please NOOOOO

But wait.
She signalled for the little to come to her
(My heart: Don't take away the child please).
The lady gives her food to eat, touches her feet and walks off!
What she had done was actually followed a ritual wherein on a certain day, a virgin girl has to be fed and her blessings obtained.

I smiled.
Smiled large.
In one second, that little unwanted bitch, the street slut had turned into a Devi.

(Forgive me for using such words but this is how the street girls are perceived as.)

Wow! I said, Jai ho tere maya Prabhu.
Thank you for making us come up with bizarre rituals.

At least it fed an empty stomach today.
At least it made someone see beyond the dirty appearance.

At least it made us discover the true God inside.

(Pic courtesy: Flickr.com)

Life can teach you lessons, sometime at the rate of one in a lifetime and sometimes at the rate of one a minute. My current learning rate is like one every minute. The revelations are sometimes too much to handle. I don't want to change, I protest, but change I have to. But in actual terms, technically too, it's not a change change. It is like the snake who sheds his skin to find a fresher, deeper and more cleaner dermis for itself. The snake did not change; it shed a yesterday for a fresher today.

Yes, I have begin to shed my skin.

I'm learning my new self, accepting my real self.

The journey seems tough, but in the mind, it is like me walking from sunset to sunrise.

The path is dark, but that's such a positive sign, for darkness, as I once realised, is the shadow of light. 

Unko dekha toh yeh khayal aaya,
Unko dekha toh yeh khayal aaya,
Abey yeh kisi aur ke maal hai,
Jaaney de bhaya…