Author :Aniruddha banhatti
Address : flat 102, harmony, padma coop. housing society,
Bibwewadi,
PUNE 411037
Tel : 020-65270908
e-mail : anibani@rediffmail.com
cheque no. 178502 of ICICI bank, Pune.
Amount 250 Rs. Dated 30-04-2010


THE MOSAIC

When Hari woke up he remembered the dream as he looked at the almost horizontal slanting five parallelepiped beams of morning sunlight made sharp edged and solid by the dust in the air. It was like a mosaic. Lady Edwina and Nehru and Rama – was it Rama, or some other name? – anyway, the daughter of Sarojini Naidu – Naidu was clearly correct – From yesterday’s party at Mrs. Teji Achkan. The Achkan’s were an arty lot. Hence he had gone with Sandy. Now-a-days, Art with a capital ‘a’ was big. For laundering money. Hussain was there - the horse specialist - and Bal Takle – who specialized in pigs – especially pigs being slaughtered in a flood of red blood - and also flying pigs- like Pink Floyd – Pigs on the wings – all that of course was retro now- But the dream – Oh yes! – Hari brought his thoughts under control. Yawned. The bucket was full. In the narrow attic where he lived, at the highest end, which was 8 feet high, opposite to the end where he slept, which was five feet high, there was a tap and a one foot high wall surrounded from 3 sides, it was called ‘mori’ in marathi – in that mori, he had arranged 3 buckets in such a way that when one was full, it overflowed into the second, which in turn overflowed into the third. He had made that arrangement with the help of 2 plastic dust pans and a plastic mug. So that when the water came at 4 in the morning, he didn’t have to get up. The landlord cut the water supply from below after half an hour. Within that time, his 3 buckets were full.
Hari yawned again. The mosaic. It was quite clear, wasn’t it?
Na koi jeene-wala-
Na koi marne-wala-
Apni to pathshala
Masti ki pathshala-
A radio was playing- or was it the TV? – Hari took a tin pot and filled it with water and climbed down carefully the ladder from the attic into the corridor, and seeing that the toilet was unoccupied, went in and after a brief time came whistling back, lightened and refreshed. Yesterday was a big day. It started with Sandy - his classmate from J.J.Arts School – He was sitting as usual with Maqbool smoking chillum of a very good hash, and suddenly, Sandy materialized, asking for him, asking for Hari! After so many years! Sandy didn’t take no for an answer and took Hari from the hash den to a posh Cuffe Parade flat where they drank scotch - The Cutty Sark - and discussed Nehru and Edwina and Mountbatten and Jinnah and Man Mohan and Soniya and what not! And Indira and Sanjay and Rajiv and Bofors and Quatrocchi and money – and Mrs. Achkan shouting shrilly – “From our pockets! You know, from our pockets!! Damn these illiterate breeding rabbits who make democracy a joke!”
And someone else shouting, “ All the freedom fighters must be wincing in heaven, hearing praise of British Raj as ‘Good Governance’”
“Sartre said…..”
Hari had become comfortably numb. He had left all this long back. He knew. He knew.
Hari had remembered his suicide attempt.
“Nobody commits suicide for onomotopic reasons.”
Sartre had said.
No – something wrong.
“Nobody commits suicide for oomotic reasons.”
Some word…ending….oomotic? No…something different….Like Maggi tomato ketchup….and the blood spilled in Falklands. Oomotic. Osmotic. Osmosis of blood and world politics.
“Indians don’t have any civic sense.”
“Indians are thieves.”
Hari remembered the insults when he had gone to England as a tourist. He was accused by an old lady, wrongly of course, of something he couldn’t even imagine of doing. And treated as a thief by departmental stores. And cabbies won’t put his bag in the boot of the taxi meter cab, but waited that he himself do that.
“India is as much a nation as the equator is a nation.” Hadn’t Churchill said that?
Now, much worse of what Churchill said was recently revealed.
The argument had reached high levels with scotch. Everyone was an expert in international politics. Everyone was an angel, humanitarian, impartial, secular being, judging the history.
Suddenly, a shrill female voice had said,
“But it isn’t justified!”
“If it has happened, it is justified!”, a heavy, undrunk, clear voice had said.
Hari was remembering-
- everybody looked at Kunal.
“What do you mean?” Aarti, the shrill female said.
In his heavy voice Kunal said,
“It has happened. Whatever you do can’t make it unhappen. Hence it is justified.”
“But it was illegal. It was inhuman. How can you say it was justified? The police just killed the lot of them, cut the palms of the males and breasts of the females and you say that it is justified?”
“Maybe not justified by our perception of justice. But remember, that it has happened. Now all the world acting together against it won’t make it unhappen again.”
“I don’t understand you.”
“Since it has happened in this universe, it was justified by this universe. With our limitations as humans, we may fail to see the justification but what is important is that it happened. The world trade-center was demolished on nine-eleven! Now whatever you do, the fact remains that it is gone! Bush has attacked Iraq. It has happened! You may take precautions so that something similar may not happen. Human society may progress but events keep on happening on their own, and anything that has happened is beyond our control. We can’t undo it! In a way that is our limit! The humans, all the life on earth, everything will become extinct. Still many things will keep on happening! And those will happen because those have to happen! In the same way, whatever has already happened, had to happen!”
“Aww! Shaddap Kunal! Give us a break!”
“Aarti! Why don’t you two go in a corner and discuss?” Pinto conclusively ended the heavy debate, and as everyone heaved a sigh of relief, started telling the latest dirty joke about two fleas, a Frenchman with constant and severe cold and an actress, and the flow of the party resumed its original course.
And the that time it happened – Hari was remembering while taking his bath from the second bucket of water –
Sharu walked in.
Sharvari Sabnis who was his classmate in J.J.School of Arts.
Sharvari with whom he had held a number of his joint exhibitions.
Sharvari who led him on and on without letting him even touch her and then suddenly married an unknown industrialist and went to the States. Sharvari who had broken his heart.
Sharvari who had come two days before her marriage and mended his heart by having sex with him and taking his virginity and teaching him a few things about women.
Sharvari.
Sharu – to be pronounced Sharoo. Sharu who was always one of the reasons of his present self imposed exile from the Art-world. His brother, his brother’s wife and his mother, were the other reasons why he was living with minimum necessities, with minimum efforts and spending maximum of his time in a stoned condition induced by hashish – charras – his preferred form intoxication. He never had like alcohol.
And before coming home yesterday, he had slept with her.
Ontological! Was that the word Sartre had used in his essay on suicide? Or was it Camus? Yes! It was Camus!
And he had said that nobody would commit suicide for ontological reasons! Poor fellow Camus, he didn’t know Hari!
Hari had almost successfully done so. By a miracle he was saved. And then he changed. He closed up. He stopped talking. He stopped arguing. He started getting stoned. Remaining in the stoned condition during his waking hours became the sole aim of his life. And – now he was thinking while wearing clothes – according to Kunal’s theory of yesterday, it happened everyday hence, it had to happen. Nothing mattered.
It was the same mosaic from time immemorial. Attila the hun, Changeez Khan and his hordes, Vlaad the impaler, The Mughals, Hitler, Khomeini, Saddam and now Bush!
Thatcher, Lenin, the Russians and for the matter of that take anybody – and take the history of earth. There was the same fear driving humans on and on.
Fear was the really the key.
Survival of the fittest –
The first flaw of the universe – as Robert Coover had said _ that elusive book _ he didn’t get it again _ how he had tried to get those two books! – Pricksongs and Descants by Robert Coover and Western Psychotherapy and the Hindu Sadhana Way by Hans Jacob! The second one he had seen at Trimbakrao’s place. It was given to him by Babasaheb Yerkuntwar when he was sent to Nagpur after his suicide attempt. It was just fantastic!
He had found all his hallucinations illustrated in that book by all unknown painters.
It was a very old book. He often dreamed about that book. He had searched for it on internet, at the British Council, it was issued to someone, but was never returned, and the person to whom it was issued had vanished and was untraceable!
Hari sighed.
He put the lock to the trap door above his head, through which he had come out and was standing on the iron ladder, pocketed the key, came out of the crumbling Victorian bunglow.
He saw her.
He tried to avoid her.
But it was too late.
He didn’t want another day like yesterday. He wanted to become numb, lifeless and timeless, under the influence of hash and sit in the charras-den with his fellow “charsees”.
Without talking.
Without moving.
Without breathing.
Without thinking.
Totally, utterly stoned.
But Sharu came, grabbed his shoulders and kissed him on the lips, and the 4-5 people around them stared at them in disbelief.
“Oh, Sharu, I am sorry….” He began.
She clumped him on his head and laughed “Don’t give me that shit! Come!”
She had already stopped a passing cab and pulled him in, and told the cabbie to go to Crystal Art Gallery.
“How did you know I live here?”
“Sandy told me.”
A protest march.
Traffic jam.
Hari remembered yesterday’s discussion.
“….I was so afraid, when our PM said that British Raj was an instance of good governance! It was a clear indication that state terrorism was about to begin. It was indication that lathy charges, police firings would become rampant again. And last few months, the events have proved me correct! It’s the British Raj resurrected all over India!”
“You are a fool!.” Mr. Jhangiani had said, “You don’t remember what had happened when Manmohan was finance minister. He had presented the budget and The Indian Express had run a series proving that the budget was prepared in America and Manmohan had just signed it. They had given phrases never used in Indian budget before, but common for US budget, they had given words – for example elevators instead of lifts – they had listed more than 100 Americanisms used in the budget.
So, American Raj is gonna come here, not British Raj! In a few years we will be a mined nation, like Indonesia!”
“Aww! Shaddap!”, Kunal had said, “Whatever Raj comes, progress is inevitable! And in spite of good or bad government, the events will go on happening as they have to happen!”
“That’s just escapism.”
“No, it is not.”


- - - - - - - - - - - - - -

“Hey!!” Sharu shouted, “What shall we do?” and Hari became conscious of the present. The taxi had grounded to a halt. There was a large protest march.
Hari looked outside.
They were very near to Crystal Art Gallery.
“We will walk.”
“Is it nearby?”
“Ya!”
They paid cab, and through the crowd, Hari took her via two cross lanes to the steps of the gallery. And as they mounted the steps, they heard the shots. Police firing. No tear gas, no water cannons, directly firing. Like they had shown in Rang De Basanti. There was a stampede. Shouts. More shots fired. Screaming of dying people. All the signs of British Good Governance. Hari found his bile rising. He had withdrawn long back. He hated being involved. And yet, from yesterday, Sandy – curse him – had pulled him out from his hibernation into this madness of human society. Somebody opened the doors an inch, saw Sharu and admitted them inside and closed and barred the doors from inside.
“I think, now a days, the police in every state have instructions to fire directly on the mobs.” Shashank, Sharu’s friend who had admitted them in, said “Oh! How I hate all this!”
Hari thought, by this time, generally, he would have been totally stoned. Thinking of black holes and stars and how universes are born and then after some time, after a few more rounds of hash, he would have been totally stoned. Intensely conscious of his own being and of nothing else. He knew Shashank. A brilliant student from the J.J.School days. He had seen his name in the newspapers. That was Shashank’s speciality. Self publicity.
“Oh! I am so sorry!” Sharu was saying to Shashank. Everything was cancelled.
The inauguration of Shashank’s exhibition, was cancelled. A few of his friends were now locked inside his gallery. Nobody knew when they would be able to get out. Police sirens were howling outside. The sounds of stone throwing were also audible. Then some explosions. Then blaring of loud-speakers.
Some announcements.
Somebody came in again and barricaded the doors.
He talked urgently with Shashank. Shashank and his three frinds, two of them women, nodded repeatedly, and then Shashank came to Sharu and Hari.
“I am sorry Sharu. Every thing is cancelled. You tow remain here. I will come back within an hour and take you to my flat”.
“O.K”. Sharu was seeing his canvases, or rather, printouts. Huge printouts of his computer art. As they went out through the back door, there was an eerie silence.
Hari looked around. Sharu was looking at a huge painting. He went to her and put his hands on her shoulders. The painting was a pattern. A mosaic. And then he spotted the movement in the painting! The mosaic was eternal, he thought. Sharu moved back and snuggled against him. He was aroused. The male desire. The cruelty. The penetration desire. The black hole. The engulfing instinct! From stone age till now, it was the same human society. Equally cruel. Nothing had changed. Surrounded by Shashank’s paintings they were suddenly making love! On the hard floor. This was good, thought Hari. This was the compensation for being involved. But that was better, not being involved, a voice inside him said.

They got up.
“Hari, I love you!”, Sharu said.
“Me too. “ , Hari said unconvincingly. Sharu took a pack of Wills from her purse.
“Wait”, Hari said, and took out a big lump of hashish from his jeans. They prepared a joint and smoked amicably. Both of them were stoned within minutes.
“Let’s look at Shahank’s paintings. “
The Mosaic. That was the name of the exhibition. Hari had been thinking about it from yesterday. One by one, they saw the paintings. Sharu was commenting intelligently on each one. They had bolted the front and back doors from inside.
Sharu’s cell-phone rang. She ran to it. Said, “ya,ya, ok ok” for a long time and came back to him.
“Shashank can’t come back till evening. A curfew has been imposed on this area till 6 P.M. There are some eatables in the fridge in that room over there. Also some good wine! What do you say?”
Hari was terribly hungry. Attached to the hall of the gallery was a small room with a bed, a fridge, a platform, a sink and a gas stove for cooking.
Sharu took out some cheese, a bottle of wine, took out some sausages from the deep freeze and cooked a sumptuous meal in a sauce pan. There was a loaf of bread. She made some coffee with the milk, without adding water to it.
They ate in peace, feeling great, feeling totally together. Yesterday’s proposal put forth by Sharu was in their minds and both of them knew that.
“Come,” said Hari, inspired, “I will paint you, sit on the bed.”
“Wow!” Sharu said.
Hari assembled paints, easel, brushes, which were lying about in abundance in the gallery.
He mounted a canvas and took the brush in his hand. He was overwhelmed. He was ending his exile. He was taking a brush in his hand after some 5, maybe 6 years!
Without sketching, painting directly that was his method.
He put the first dab of paint on the canvas and looked at it.
The world whirled around him. For a long time he didn’t know what happened. The world no longer made sense. A virus was attacking the mosaic. Shapes were collapsing and black holes were swallowing the universe. There were huge corruptions of the pattern everywhere in the mosaic. And the corruptions were spreading around. Ones and zeroes. The world was made of zeroes and ones.
There were fires and the canvas was burning here and there.
Everywhere was cruelty.
This was chaos.
But then some points glowed together and rose above the collapsing shapes. They formed a strange harmony. The glowing points rose and fell, and made a thousand beautiful patterns in each second. This was Mozart and this was Picasso. There was a Gandhi for each Hitler and a Vajpayee for each Quatrochi. The universe disintegrated and became pure energy in the eyes of Van Gogh, and a billion artists past and present made up for all the flaws of the universe.
He put the second dab and started working earnestly.
By evening, they had made love four times and he had painted ten canvases!
He was that fast during his student days in J.J., too.
Sharu knew this.
“You are rich!” she said “Each one will fetch at least one lakh.”
“So what about it?”, she said. They had dressed, were waiting for Shashank, who had called saying that he was coming.
Hari looked at her.
He tried to focus on the last two days of his self imposed exile. But he couldn’t.
Yesterday, Sharu had asked him to marry him and go to the U.S.
Her husband was dead and she was rich.
“So what about it?’ she asked.
“The answer is ‘Yes’!” he said with difficulty.
She uttered a cry and hugged him tightly.
“But,”, he said, and she stiffened, “We won’t go there. We will live in India. Maybe some village in the Himalayas!”
“Oh!” ,she said, relieved, “Ok. That’s even better. I thought you wanted to leave India and go there.”
“No, not at all!”
She started kissing him again.
There were loud raps on the back-door.
“Here comes Shashank and company”, he said and went ahead to open the bolted door.

Impressum

Tag der Veröffentlichung: 13.03.2011

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