AN ARTIST- PART 1

Why the moral policing? Kunal jerked his head, after all isn’t it my money and health, grinded his teeth. Who gives them right. “I know I am in the right.” he said the words out loud but no one heard it as he was alone in his workshop. See I have said it, then why do I still feel the pain in my head? From his position on the sofa Kunal looked at the bolted door, at that moment another thought spurred up. With fame comes great responsibility. The one constant advice he kept hearing all through his childhood to the initial years of adulthood. Was this the source of his discomfort? Was being a famous painter reason of his freedom to be being taken away? He remembered how the people closest to him becoming cautious with every new success of his, and came up with their do’s and don’ts lists, much to his chagrin. Things became so chaotic that he felt choked, so he discarded his so called well wishers, with the exception of one, a mischievous smile adorned his face.     

At that time he heard a slight knock on the door, “Who is it?” he asked very well knowing who it was.

“It’s me, Manohar” the voice said.

“What do you want? Let me in peace.”

“That I can’t give till you mend your ways.”

“What wrong did I commit?”

“You very well know”

“I don’t know, please enlighten me”

 “Just look at the stack of newspapers laid on the table”

“Don’t lie, there are no papers”

Laughter was heard from across the door which felt like a stab to his heart as he knew the truth. Kunal had already gone through the morning's newspapers which depicted his latest misdemeanour, stumbling in a high profile party under the influence of alcohol; hence the closed door.

“Do I need to elaborate, you are an intelligent man” Manohar said from outside the door.

Kunal took a gulp of whiskey from the glass he was holding.

“Will you be kind enough to open the door so that we can have this discussion, the traditional way?”

From his position on the sofa Kunal looked at the door, should have turned him out also, when I had the chance. So admitting defeat he got up from his seat and opened the door.   

“Thank you” Manohar said and entered the room.

Kunal kept the door ajar, as there was no further merit in closing it, and regained his position on the sofa. He took a big gulp from his glass, and savoured the taste as he knew it would be the last pleasurable thing he would be experiencing in the immediate future and waited for the outburst as he saw Manohar pacing in the room.

“What were you thinking?” Manohar said pointing at the stack of newspapers, “they will decimate you” Manohar added.

Although he has grown accustomed to Manohar’s harsh words but somehow decimate, word piqued his conscious.  “We came from dust and dust we shall be,” he replied with a straight face.  

Manohar observed him for a few moments, “You understand the agenda here?” Manohar said.

Biting his tongue Kunal knew he had let emotions override his mind. He knew Manohar too well to get annoyed by his comments as the intentions behind the repost were true, and smiled at Manohar.

As if taking a queue Manohar resumed again, “Do whatever you wish but don’t blame me later.”

Kunal kept quiet and waited for his chance.

“Don’t give them any more ammunition,” Manohar said picking up a newspaper that had vividly captured his misfortune, “you are making your own pyre” Manohar added.

Kunal knew it was the increase in frequency of such incidents that had instigated Manohar’s anger; otherwise public relationship hazards like these were the precise moments in which Manohar revelled.

“I just want to add one more thing, cancel today’s interview,” Manohar said.

“Why,” he replied.

“Because it is the right thing to do in the present circumstances.”

“No more blinds please.”

“And let the people and critics burn you.”

“Let them decide, not you or me.”

“See, I can’t see you getting slaughtered and do nothing.”

“I just want the truth to prevail, nothing more nothing less.”

“And what truth is that?” Manohar asked

“That it ok to let alcohol override you once in awhile”

“Do you even hear what you just stated?”

“Isn’t it I who said it.”

“Does it occur to you what society expects from you?”

Kunal shook his head in disagreement.

“Do you even know what a star is?” Manohar added.

“I don’t know and I don’t wish to know, all I want is independence of making a mistake,” Kunal replied.

Manohar kept quiet for a few moments, “sadly that privilege you can’t have.”

Kunal took a long breath that expanded his chest to the limit and then exhaled.

“What do you suggest?”

“Go out of the city for few days”

“How many days?”

“Till your news gets stale.”

“Would you be kind enough to recommend a place also?”

“Your wish; I will get the arrangements done. ”

“What if I do the opposite to what you suggested?”

“This is my humble professional advice that, you leave the city for a few days till your stupor fall news is overtaken by some other breaking news,” Manohar said and exited the room.

Kunal got up from the sofa and stood alone in his workshop; “Till your stupor fall news is overtaken” mimicking Manohar’s line he closed his mouth, and went deep into thought. And recalled all the painful experience he endured, the humiliating act to which he was subjected and the taunting mannerism he had encountered over the years in his quest to become a painter; which by seer hard work and persistence he had become. And over period of time got very good at that also. In that personal moment he let his guard down and revealed his vengeful side against every critic, every patron and every fan that have started to find faults his creations, I will get even with them; prove that I am still the best. His face had lost all its friendliness, does these critics know the myriad of pains an artist goes through in the process of creating art. To understand this love affair one has to be an artist first. The anger was consuming, and his body stared to shake uncontrollably. What do these bums know about art?

In this agitated state Kunal turned his face towards one corner of the room and his eyes fell on his newest project, a self portrait. The canvas placed on the tripod was littered with eyes, nose, ears, and mouth of various shapes and depicting myriad emotions. But somehow he was unable to pick the right ones, and do justice to his creation. The canvas had such a profound effect that all the ugliness in his heart dropped in an instant and a knowing grin enveloped his face, When was the last time I got out? He pondered on the idea of an outing and kept looking at his incomplete work, and called Shambu, his servant. Kunal instructed the servant to get the bags packed. As the servant was about to go ahead and implement on his instructions, “and call Manohar to the house.” he added.

“Manohar sir is waiting in the guest room,” the servant replied.

This is what happens when two people know each other intimately; after all there association was more than twenty five years, “send him in” he said with a smile, “we have plans to make” he added, and kept looking at his incomplete creation.