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…