Wednesday, April 20, 2005

Hands

His fingers stark white, reached into the pocket of his black windcheater. He dropped the coins he needed into his left palm and handed it to the paanwallah in exchange for two cigarettes. Slipping one into his pocket and another between his lips, he held out his hand again for a matchbox. His hand trembled a little in the wet cold as he struck a match and lit his cigarette. He moved to the bus stop next to the shop and leaned against the railing.

He took a long, satisfying puff and dangled his hand by his side, the cigarette held loosely between his long, sinewy fingers. He turned his hands over contemplatively. They were an artist’s hands. Would they have looked the same even if he had another profession? He liked to think not. Sensuality without purpose did not appeal to him. The purpose of his hands was to hold chisel to marble and so they were so.

He believed in destiny. Whatever path a soul takes, it would ultimately lead it to the destination it was meant to discover. He had reached his. The universe could reinvent itself infinitely but the energy that made up his soul would always create these hands to sculpt stone.

This consciousness didn’t make it easier to bear the chill of his third floor single-room apartment. Mostly, he worked through the night. It was when he was most free. Darkness flooded in and filled out all the ugly spaces and from that pool he could drink of beauty. He poured into his sculptures the sad, haunting wail of the universe. Sadness was the creative force. Happiness was too easy and shallow. Only sadness could reach the dark recesses of truth and beauty. Not gut-wrenching despair but the slow melancholy that builds ever so slow inside the bones, shaping them and fleshing them out in time with the rhythm of the universe.

He flattened the stub of his last cigarette under his shoe, pulled his windcheater in closer and ran across the road. It was payday, and tonight he would meet the gang for conversation and drink. It was it their monthly ritual. Painters, writers, actors -- all trying pitifully to mould themselves to the necessary stereotype of the struggling artist. A few had talent. Others would make it big. He enjoyed the ridiculous boisterousness and the numbness of his empty mind. It was a necessary cycle. One couldn’t fill what wasn’t empty.

The second-hand bookstore where he worked had that rundown, musty feel of an authentic bookshop that made promises of treasures waiting to be unearthed. The owner had stared at him with an unapologetic intensity during the interview and then cackled a cruel, satisfactory laugh that shook his gaunt and withered frame. The owner kept him in the shop for as long he could but he didn’t mind. He only claimed the nights as his own. He didn’t care for books much. He was merely thankful he could keep himself clean. Occasionally a customer would walk in. Rarer still, one stayed, savoured, and left with eyes shining. He would nod them an acknowledgment. Brief, and then gone. The warmth eternal.

The stars were still bright when he returned home. He climbed into bed without switching the lights on. He always slept soundly. There were no dreams to haunt and nurture him. They just slipped effortlessly in and out of his sub conscience without a sound. All this thoughts were formed, wide awake, in the clear light of the night.

The incessant ring of the telephone jarred his senses. His mind rebelled and then gave in. It was the gallery director. Two of his pieces had gone unnoticed six months ago. The director, however, had held on to them. Very rich. Great admirer of art. Likes to encourage young talent. He listened without replying. The director went on. Wants to commission an entire series on the theme “The Grand Passion”. Wedding gift for daughter. Recognition. Money. He listened patiently to the director’s anguished barrage, and then politely repeated his refusal. He kept the receiver back and realised his body was stiff. He let out a deep breath and walked back to his bed. He sat on the edge and put his face down to the sheets and wept.

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