Calcutta, Present Day.
"Ayi Shomo, where are you leaving for?", Enquired Mastermoni. Shome took out his gunnysack and easel and walked for the door as Mastermoni, his highly interesting teacher and psuedo-landord finished his cup of green tea. He didn't mind the often unwarranted queries by the old man since he not only got the good fortune to work under him, but also got to stay in his palatial house right in the middle of the city.
Little known by his original name of Diponkar Mukherji, Mastermoni during his heydays was a radical painter. Starting out as a petty graffiti boy for the communists when he was given free reign to paint the walls of Kolkata with propaganda art; he came to be one of the finest artists who was profusely patronised amongst the Tollygunge elite, and respected immensely among the junta at the India Coffee House. So much was his legacy that the street that passed through his house was known as Mukherji Para, the avenue of the Mukherji's.
As Shome put in his chappals at the door, he replied, "I'll go to the National Library, read for a while and then maybe finish the chobbi I'm working on."
"Even Picasso would have stayed home on a lovely day like this..", Mastermoni quipped as he lit his pipe and looked out of the french window to a rain drenched Kolkata on a lazy saturday.
A Couple of Minutes Later.
Amidst the shouts of market vendors, bells of the Kalighat temple and a surprisingly cool wind in the air, he walked up to the main road and then took the stairway to the metro station underneath. It is even cooler here, he thought as he passed the gates and boarded a train that was just about to leave.
As he stood with one arm clinging to the handrail, he noticed a very gorgeous and demure lady sitting right in front of him. In the next few minutes, their eyes met once or twice and she used to shy away. At least he thought so. From the top to bottom, he checked her out and he so was enamoured by her beauty, one could tell by the look on his face. Artists tend to fall in love easily.
A little later, a station came and the girl hurriedly got down. As he devoured the jasmine scent of her body when she passed by him to the door, he also felt a strange sensation around his hips. Somebody has just pinched him. Thanks to the crowd, he couldn't know who.
As he looked little further inside the compartment, he saw another man constantly staring at him. Shome looked at this stranger for a while and made a few points on his mind. He was being checked by a person who was not straight, Shome could tell. He noticed the Kajal in his eyes, the tight jeans, shaved underarms and all that. And the stranger was gradually taking steps towards the place he was standing. As he started feeling extremely uncomfortable, his station was about to arrive much to his relief.
"Poroborti Station Rabindra Sadan", the phony announcer quipped.
He used the crowd in the station to his advantage and made a dash towards the escalator, as the stranger was already hooting at him by now.
"Aiee Roxy, Tumi Aashbo na??", the stranger was shouting shamelessly with a effeminate touch to his voice.
As he touched the escalator, he looked back to confirm. He had lost Mr. not-straight. Relief.
He walked up and his eyes feel upon an inscription at the station's plaque that had a couplet from a poem of Tagore's. It read like this,
"Ayi Shomo, where are you leaving for?", Enquired Mastermoni. Shome took out his gunnysack and easel and walked for the door as Mastermoni, his highly interesting teacher and psuedo-landord finished his cup of green tea. He didn't mind the often unwarranted queries by the old man since he not only got the good fortune to work under him, but also got to stay in his palatial house right in the middle of the city.
Little known by his original name of Diponkar Mukherji, Mastermoni during his heydays was a radical painter. Starting out as a petty graffiti boy for the communists when he was given free reign to paint the walls of Kolkata with propaganda art; he came to be one of the finest artists who was profusely patronised amongst the Tollygunge elite, and respected immensely among the junta at the India Coffee House. So much was his legacy that the street that passed through his house was known as Mukherji Para, the avenue of the Mukherji's.
As Shome put in his chappals at the door, he replied, "I'll go to the National Library, read for a while and then maybe finish the chobbi I'm working on."
"Even Picasso would have stayed home on a lovely day like this..", Mastermoni quipped as he lit his pipe and looked out of the french window to a rain drenched Kolkata on a lazy saturday.
A Couple of Minutes Later.
Amidst the shouts of market vendors, bells of the Kalighat temple and a surprisingly cool wind in the air, he walked up to the main road and then took the stairway to the metro station underneath. It is even cooler here, he thought as he passed the gates and boarded a train that was just about to leave.
As he stood with one arm clinging to the handrail, he noticed a very gorgeous and demure lady sitting right in front of him. In the next few minutes, their eyes met once or twice and she used to shy away. At least he thought so. From the top to bottom, he checked her out and he so was enamoured by her beauty, one could tell by the look on his face. Artists tend to fall in love easily.
A little later, a station came and the girl hurriedly got down. As he devoured the jasmine scent of her body when she passed by him to the door, he also felt a strange sensation around his hips. Somebody has just pinched him. Thanks to the crowd, he couldn't know who.
As he looked little further inside the compartment, he saw another man constantly staring at him. Shome looked at this stranger for a while and made a few points on his mind. He was being checked by a person who was not straight, Shome could tell. He noticed the Kajal in his eyes, the tight jeans, shaved underarms and all that. And the stranger was gradually taking steps towards the place he was standing. As he started feeling extremely uncomfortable, his station was about to arrive much to his relief.
"Poroborti Station Rabindra Sadan", the phony announcer quipped.
He used the crowd in the station to his advantage and made a dash towards the escalator, as the stranger was already hooting at him by now.
"Aiee Roxy, Tumi Aashbo na??", the stranger was shouting shamelessly with a effeminate touch to his voice.
As he touched the escalator, he looked back to confirm. He had lost Mr. not-straight. Relief.
He walked up and his eyes feel upon an inscription at the station's plaque that had a couplet from a poem of Tagore's. It read like this,
Through the silent nightNow he knew what the girl must have felt.
I hear the knockings at my heart,
of the morning's vagrant hopes,
Sadly coming back.
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