My umpTEENth Blog

Taking my socks off in the balcony of the fifth floor, I was taken aback by the sudden noise of a loud slap. It was the third floor of the opposite apartment and what I saw transported me close to a decade-and-a-half back. A time warp had abruptly opened its doors as I saw this boy in his early teens (I assumed thirteen) being thrashed and given an earful by a lady who certainly looked like his mother. The boy who was visibly startled by the sudden public humiliation at the hands of his own folks would have no respite though. His father joined in and the poor fellow now resembled a thief caught amidst an unforgiving mob. Little sister had foreseen the storm coming and disappeared in a flash. A dull summer evening meant show-time for the housewives and kids residing in the adjacent buildings. The boy desperately tried putting his case forward in Telugu which I interpreted as “Me and my wife will avenge this insult one day”

I too had spent close to seven years in the Alcatraz prison. No matter what your crime is, the sentence is fixed at seven years of rigorous imprisonment. All these years, no matter what time of the day it is, you’d always be hungry. Hair growing on your face and stranger places still would make you look uglier. Not only would you stop looking into the mirror, you’d know that it’s your face that is to be blamed for the lack of mercy from the warden. No matter how hard you’d try, your voice wouldn’t be pleasant or soothing. A strange baritone emanating from a petite thirteen year old body would raise suspicions and result in more thrashing. You’d look at the taller inmates and envy them. “I am sure they are spared of all the beatings. They’re tall. They look like men” – you’d wonder. Jars of Horlicks and Complan would do no magic trick as you’d spend all of it in carrying the bags full of bricks and stones to and fro each day.

Like in any jail, being a prisoner means you’d have no identity of your own. Hair would be cut short and neatly combed with a clear LOC (read partition) in between having no disputes. Being an ugly duckling, you’d be ashamed in front of the opposite sex of the same age. Strangely though, they’d look gorgeous and blossoming out showing no signs of prison-sickness. However your lack of confidence would mean you’d be reading the floor mostly, and hence missing out on the beauty that should have been so desperately appreciated. Each day the wardens would parade you in front of their friends who’d invariably ask you the same question each time. “What do you intend to do once free?” “The day I am free, you better watch out!!” you’d think, but you wouldn’t have an answer. Because each morning you’d wake up with a different dream – a cricketer one day, a software engineer the second, a musician some day and an adventurer again. But more practically, each morning you’d also wake up with the prayers “god no pimples today.”

The crowd meanwhile had dispersed at the culmination of the climax scene. Poor dark boy with a thin layer of moustache had wiped his tears. Perhaps a man had just been born out of the ashes. Perhaps he had made a note of every single onlooker who had laughed at his misfortune today. Too late for my explanations…

Being a clown...

The dark smoke from the colorful candles gushed into my nostrils as I plucked the E-string of the guitar for one last time. Cake smeared on her face as everyone clapped in joy. Happy birthday indeed it was as I saw the newly-weds smile, exchanging the loveliest of split-second glances. And midnight it was, but I sweated profusely. More couples in love meant more dedications and mushy numbers. This meant I’d strum the strings of a half-known, half stranger instrument while sweat trickled down my forehead further down to my cheeks. I’d cover up the end of each of my imperfect melody with a witty comment, or a lousy mimicry of an idiosyncratic actor, making the happy-high crowd chortle. The last beer can would then be crushed, lights put off as I’d pack my guitar cracking one final joke walking out. End of the party.

Next day the clown performs yet again at the post-lunch-pre-nap session at work. Some get the jokes and laugh, while some laugh as there is nothing better to do. It’s the beginning of the week, but the party for the next weekend is already fixed. “You and your guitar are cordially invited. No stag entry” reads the verbal invitation. Crowd disperses to the respective workstations as the clown strolls towards the washroom. “Let’s get the face paint and the red cherry off the nose now.”

A good sense of humour is a certain entry pass to all parties in town. Most jokes work out if the crowd is intelligent, some fall flat but could be ignored or lost in the commotion. But guitar is a serious art isn’t it? “Didn’t you play the same song last time?” and “Why don’t you play what you can?” are the most common words of appreciation. But then as the mercury rises, and empty Budweiser cans stack up, “Play the high pitch…can’t you”, “I will sing”, and “I know a professional guitarist” are more frequently heard. The clown takes it all with a warm toothless smile, for his is a small performance in the greater circus called life.

It’s midnight again and a long walk back home. I switch on the lights as I directly face the mirror, the guitar still tied to my back. I look at the face paint and the guitar…”Which is a tougher art??” Yawn…

Gothic Perfection

“It’s a harmonious arrangement, a sense of completeness, a measure of excellence. It has to be a sunshine-yellow or an amber orange” - the white swan said about perfection. “It’s pitch black.” The black swan fluttered its wings violently, displaying its dictate. The two swans of course were the reflections of my imagination, perhaps steady partners of the subconscious me. The TV remote almost slipped out of my wet palms. It was early May and the noise of the rotating fan hanging from the ceiling seemed to provide nothing more than psychological cooling. Television channels had run out of juice ever since the cricket world cup was won.

Did every perfectionist in every sphere of acquired talent be it visual, or performing arts, sports or any other skill have a dark side to him? I had slowly strolled into the common garden for the residents of the gated community, not remembering if the door had been locked. The seven year old who went on to become a world famous percussionist would dip his tender palms in ice cold water for long stretches during early winter mornings before his routene Riyaaz. The literary genius would lead a painful, desolate life, understanding the sensibilities and compassion of his character, weeping late hours. The neurosurgeon who made his presence felt right from page 3 to the list of the most influential people, had his long drawn stint with the nocturnal dwellers of the mortuary. The deaf composer of numerous symphonies spent thousands of night in the dark room by the flickering lantern, gathering musical notes from the silence within. Yes, the pursuit of perfection had come at a dark, gory price.

The light breeze on my face and the giggles of little children playing twilight games diverted my attention from the grim theme. A little brawl halted the rather playful evening. In the game of hide and seek, we all cheat a little don’t we? So were the contours of the lives of all perfectionists defined by foulplays? Did the host of the colossal gaming event chop off the hands and feet of non-performers and make the rest rehearse, practice and train for years to put up the most brilliant spectacle ever on earth? Did the master sportsman ever fiddle with the selection of another upcoming talent, who also happened to be his best friend? Did the artist romance compulsively with every other person of the opposite sex to give an illustrious look to the canvas of his life?

The little outstretched arms of my watch displayed 7 PM. Twilight had just been engulfed by the obscure shade. Darkness calling aloud…