Follow up –> .D.O.T.(A poet’s reminiscence)
A stack of pencil, an eraser and a sketchbook are kept side by side on a table in a shady room with dim light. A lamp stood on the table under which a hand is moving clamorously, restless. The hand picks the sketchbook and switches on the lamp. Its been days the hand couldn’t find peace. With the profanity of time it had got used to holding brushes and moving in dancing carousal. It has become his intrinsic property now. Different shades of colour embodied on it is vocalizing the fact ,It has always found the peace with its surreptitious affair with the brushes, However today it is perplexed by its master deep thought..
” This has to be my masterpiece, my soliloquy“, he says as if commanding hand to just bequeath his alma mater and make him a witness of a new history being sublimed in the canvas . He holds the canvas near him and he could see the marks beckoning in light and dark shades. Still unsatisfied he picks up his eraser and rubs frantically, still various pieces of dots were revolting.
The dots .the mistakes as he perceived. He wondered how these mistakes change everything. Mistakes as done in large number, they become a truth…a law…these mistakes become then acceptable.
“At last“, he says, “at last the mistakes are showing a truth in them, may be this is the masterpiece, I am endowed for“
..The dots were making a mark showing a change and they were becoming a part of his drawing…
Pacified with his new found imagery, the hand stopped its clutter. Taking a euphoric stance the hymn began.
Through the silhouette of galleries not shown, through the evanescent bromidic shady corners not known and through the creaky doors of hall of soul, the viviparous lead gives birth to misbegotten ingénue out of dipsomaniac adventure.
The master of hand raises the child out of sheer euphoria in the air. A self complacent smile appears on his face, but still he feels there is something amiss. Again the hand becomes baffled. Constant persiflage with his tool was also not giving much of comfort.
Deep the master goes, in his own world. In the canvas was lying a lady with inane sadness on her face. The phlegmatic eyes were arousing deep suspicion of her inability to pacify her begetter.
Suddenly the master jumps as if found a whole new territory. As if putting his flag to mark the territory as his own, he reaches for the sketch. On the forehead of her he baptizes the opus with a DOT.
Such is the seduction of magnanimity of the moment and such is the lewdness of the euphoria, precipitating all your moments’ weakness it takes you on a ride with neurons bashing each cell to mock on its own glibness. He brings the sketch near him and says
A sudden thunder fills the laden silence. It could not be heard yet it was clear for him. The whiteness of the sketch through the Grey dots started breaking. Lady started coming alive with drapes of different colours separating through the white.
Colours are babies of white. It’s been always so, the scions after birth surrender there own sire. White looses its own identity and disintegrates. It’s so easy for the shades to come out and even though high precision is used there is always a drop difference to get the pure white back.
The drapes surrounding the lady start unfolding and circumscribing the master. Uproar was in motion with each drape, each shade warbling in vie. The master felt first time how it is to be like weightless. His magnum opus was itself honouring him in the convivial. This tasted like joy. It tasted like anodyne.
Finally an anodyne…
Next morning in the neighbourhood a garrulous television was shouting”…Yesterday the great painter died because of cardiac arrest. However the body was found in a mangled state, police is baffled with unusual appearance of the detritus body. The body was found in his room with torso on the table and was covered with different sheets of cloth except the chest where a sketch of lady was kept. On removing the sketch something in white was discovered. A large white DOT…”