Sunday

Disease

Once, in a village, there was a boy who only wanted to paint. He smeared on his canvas detailed country landscapes, veiled village women, vigorous, heaving horses, vibrant kites fluttering in the sky, bullock-carts, vicious dogs chasing naked babies, and skinned them all of their beauty. So meticulously maneuvered were his brushstrokes, so apt his color, and so strong his desire to recreate world on his own canvas, only more beautiful. And so glad was his father. Einar’s father, he thought, they'd say, passing him on the street.

Things in Einar’s paintings did look more delightful than their real life counterparts. It was as if he was competing against the creator of the world. Mine’s better than Yours!

People who were exposed to his works – by want or accident – unanimously found themselves generally losing interest in life. Like an awful drug, his paintings created addicts who always wanted more visual delight than reality had to offer. Being an artist he was oblivious to all this, but the harmful outcomes were there; the town was growing sadder by the day.

He kept churning out painting after another painting – cloudburst, awakening, djinn, traces of summer, refusal, and so many others, and slowly, but progressively sucked village-life into a deathly oblivion of disinterest. Too late when the jeopardy was discovered, and there was hardly anything left to be done. If the boy continued to paint, more villagers would fall prey to his produce. If he stopped, those hungry for his art would perish. An off the cuff solution was proposed: separate the two worlds. Physically, that is. Keep those uninformed of his art in one compartment and the rest in another. It didn’t work out; couldn’t have.

Einar, like artists do, became an object of hatred, and deservingly so, for he had poisoned thousands of lives. Thrown them in the mouth of misery.

Generations have lived in that village since, and suffered its horrible history again and again, enduring, surviving, getting infected, getting killed even, having their moments of ecstasy nonetheless, and dancing with joy, but also, weeping against wood in the nights. Past has succeeded to survive. And made wise by this peculiar past, parents in that village still shudder at the first visible signs of creativity in their children.

9 comments:

Latin Sardar said...

Advertisingh after a long time :) good stuff!

muthu said...

Funny -- with a tinge of wry

Everymatter said...

very nice article

roopscoop said...

that's FABULOUS!! love the satire. :D

long time, buddy. where are you?

MaDdy!!! said...

welcome back Advertisingh!!! What-a happened-a to your old posts-a?

Iya said...

loved it.. long time.. all well?

small town Big dreams said...

singh remember i always say that 'you should write children books' you just proved me right. I can smell that thing in such a short compilation of words to give a shape to a story. You know what am talking. God bless you.

Pinku said...

hey Jagjit....came along hoping to see something new here...what happened buddy...the north seems to have really dried up ur juices.

This one of course is beautiful but then u haven't got anything new since nov...

Hope all is well with u....buzz me if u feel I can be of any help. :)

Cheerio!

jaspreet kaur said...

its too good..