Two painters of Kharkhoda

“I paint music!” declared a man with all his wild energy, during one of the storytelling and art discussion evenings of Kharkhoda. This man who was a painter had wild white bedraggled hair and this declaration was made because of the discussion that was going on on the forms of painting. The discussion had almost brought him to tears, as the painter favoring the realist artist form had almost successfully convinced the gathering that that is the only art form and that depicting the things how they are in reality as skillfully as possible, is all there is to art. After making this declaration, the wild painter was overcome by very strong emotions as he was very sensitive and an introvert, and he spoke like this very seldom. Also, the truth in his statement that he knew was there, made all the electricity in his body move towards his brain. So, in the remainder of the meeting, he sat with his head bowed and didn’t speak a single word.

There were two painters in Kharkhoda - one was this wild painter who said he painted music, and the other was the realist painter. Their styles were very different from each other. 

While the realist painter was capable of creating art as if he had stopped the world midway, like a photograph. He was very skilled and took care of minute details working weeks on a single painting, and the results showed his skills. Once, he painted a pair of pigeons sitting on the branches of a tree. It looked as if they would fly any moment, their pink eyes were done in soft colors very accurately. Everyone loved his paintings, and he was a very methodical, thoughtful person, also a teacher in one of the few schools of Kharkhoda. His painting skill didn’t show up in the way he lived - he wore gentleman clothes, was calm or angry but never musical. He was steadfast, but the sudden change of life was not present in his paintings. His paintings were beautiful but still paintings, they didn’t move. Manu liked his paintings but he missed the wild music, the imperfect energy, the tears of rhythm that he found in the paintings of the wild painter.

The wild painter was a poor, struggling man, much younger than the realist painter. The realist painter was known everywhere, but the wild painter was loved by a few people. He was a friend of kids. The energy in his paintings came from his sensitivity. He painted in his little poor hut, sometimes the kids peeped through the holes in the walls to have a look at him painting. They enjoyed having a look. The process of creation was more important for him. He listened to classical music while painting. His strokes were ecstatic. It was as if he was possessed by the music. Sometimes, his strokes took the lush colors of the music. Sometimes, his painting was formless, as the music danced abandoning all forms and reached the formless state. He didn’t know what he was painting, but he knew that he was being guided by an unknown force. When sunlight came into his hut, the warmth and music of the rays had an effect on his painting. When the moonlight filtered through the windows, they also left their mark. Kids loved the man and the man loved kids. 

The realist painter didn’t appreciate the wild painter’s work, but the wild painter saw beauty and love in the realist painter’s paintings, as he did in all things. Whenever he wanted to congratulate the realist painter, and approached him, he didn’t get a good response. By and by, he stopped approaching him but his considered that the realist painter’s work was more perfect.

One day, the wild painter created a painting all day, in the sun and during the night when the magical moon came. This was his most wonderful and perfect piece. He had created Goddess Sarasvati, on her White Swan. The piece had music, form, perfection, love, devotion, and something more. The colors flowed like a dance. The Goddess’ eyes were so deep, you felt the fabric of the universe when you looked into them. The Swan’s white whiter than a white cloud was peace to the soul. 

When the painting finished, the wild painter suddenly died. When people came to know, they reached his hut - the painter was found lying in front of the painting in the feet of Goddess Sarasvati, clutching to his painting brushes, and a divine expression of calm and love in his eyes…

© Manan sheel.

Mystery, Dreams, Wonder...

Understanding 

that makes 

the mysterious

more mysterious,

and not that dulls

the mystery,

that makes gems out 

of seashells,

and not gases out 

of the precious stars,

that makes the melody

from the songs

to be coming from

God's sitar,

not that makes 

it sound like a sin,

that makes lifetimes 

out of moments,

not that makes 

the life drag,

May I put

my head in the lap

of such understanding,

and dream and wonder

and dream and wonder…

© Manan sheel

रोज़ रोज़ रंग

शाम के मंदिर में

सूरज का संतरी दिया जलता है,

मैं भी काम से लौटता हूं,

सूरज भी चुप्पी की दुनिया में चलता है,

आराम करेगा रात भर,

आग और आवाज़ को शांत कर,

उठेगा फिर पहले पहर

जगमग जगमग जीवन भरने

खोलने जीवन के झरने

रंग खिलाएगा दिन भर,

नचाएगा पृथ्वी को अपने संगीत पर,

फिर जब बीत जाएगा 

दिन का अंतिम पहर,

शांति ओढ़कर सोएगा

जैसे एक मस्त लहर,

अंधेरे में रंग डूबते,

डूबकर शांत होते,

उजाले में रंग खिलते,

खिलकर नाच लेते

नाचकर फिर थकते,

शांति मांगते…

© मनन शील ।

Little Golhu and the crisp 100 rupees note

Golhu, Manu’s cousin brother, was a little brat of a kid. He was very little when he was 10 years old, and looked like he was 6. But at that age, he knew many tastes of this life and could defeat anyone in the video games he played at Titu’s shop. Manu and he shared a special friendship. Manu was 2 years younger than Golhu, but was taller than him. When both of them walked in the streets, everyone was delighted to look and it looked as if 2 kings of the street were walking. All the dogs of the street - Sheru, Tommy, Rocky - the descendants of hallaq kuttaq - behaved as if their favourite people were walking. Golhu was more worldly, Manu was Andy (from the legend of Andy), and both of them seemed ready to conquer anything.

Once it happened, Manu was not there in Kharkhoda. The sun was bright, the day was lazy and Golhu was dragging himself in the street with nothing much to do. Both hands in his nikker’s pocket, he walked listlessly. Suddenly, Oh suddenly, he couldn't believe, oh, how he would believe, on the side of the road, he saw a 100 rupees crisp note. He picked it up. Crisp like a potato chip, crisper than the mountain air it looked, and now suddenly, royalty descended on Golhu, as if he was the king of the world. He thought how is it possible without Manu, but here it was, Golhu with the hundred rupees bank note.

His boredom evaporated. The stalls of samosas, kachoris, golgappas, sweets, sharbats suddenly attracted him towards them. Pappan golgappa was shocked to see the note in Golhu’s hands and Golhu gulped 20 golgappas all of a sudden. Then, he went to the sweets shop and gulped half a dozen laddoos and rasmalais. Golhu was on the top of this world. At last, he also saved some money for a video game or two at Titu's shop. He also wanted to have something at Billu’s shop but considered that Manu wasn't with him, so he didn't.

When he was playing the game at Titu's shop, suddenly a hand came to his ear from behind and twisted it. Golhu screamed in pain, the hand was Lilu’s as his son had been observing with envy all that Golhu was doing, and had told Lilu all about it. Lilu took Golhu to his home and told everything to Golhu’s mother. Golhu's mother asked Lilu to mind his own business and wiped Golhu's tears. She also fed him more laddoos and the special halwa she prepared for him.

When Manu returned to Kharkhoda, Golhu told him about all his adventures and they had a wonderful story sharing session…

© Manan sheel.

Bhambhu Bawra

Bhambhu Bawra, mad Bhambhu, was a sweeper in the streets of Kharkhoda. He was not mad like other mad people who lose their minds - he had lost his heart. It was lost in his journey of life. He was now 28 years old and his heart, not the organ that pumps blood, but the real heart that fills with countless joys, sorrows, colors, tears, electricity, was lost. He remembered having a mother, and putting his head in her lap, he remembered that velvety tenderness that spread behind his eyelids then, he also remembered his daily trifles, daily sweeping with his tall broom, frequent insults by the people, but he didn’t remember what happened in the middle of his life, nobody knew that middle period of his life. Manu, who became his friend, took Bhambhu’s hand in his hand and could feel the warmth, the kind of warmth that has become alien in the world of logic. There was a film of tears that floated perennially in Bhambhu’s eyes. Manu used to look into his eyes and saw meaning in those tears, that something inside him knew, but that was not known in words. There was one thing Bhambhu was very particular about. Whenever someone died, he used to go to the funeral pyre and sit there for two to three days even after everyone was gone. If the funeral was of some old man, he used to repeat ‘Baba, mar ga’, ‘Baba, mar ga’ - ‘Baba is dead’, ‘Baba is dead’, while continuously silently sobbing. When Manu used to sleep in the night, before sleeping, he would say a few lines of prayer for Bhambhu, for Bhambhu’s well being. One day, Bhambhu visited a funeral pyre and was not seen afterwards. Nobody knew what happened to him, nobody even cared, but Manu’s heart still aches for his friend, he still keeps Bhambhu in his prayers…

© Manan sheel.

Gopi Sunar (An Imagination)

Gopi sunar was a childhood friend of Billu. They were very close when they were little, but afterwards their friendship declined and they went separate ways with their lives. Both of them got lost in what their respective fathers used to do. Gopi became a sunar (goldsmith) and developed a concentration of the eyes and deftness of the hands that is essential for a sunar to succeed, and billu as you know, became a clever shopkeeper whose shop became a heaven for Manu, golhu and other children. 

Gopi became a very successful goldsmith, surely the best of Kharkhoda. His profits became unmatched. As Gold and money flowed in his bank accounts, he became increasingly what he already was much - more accurate in the movement of his eyes and measurements, more deft in his handling of gold, but also he started becoming a little wild and a little crazy like a scientist. Something about his appearance - he was almost bald with little hair on his head above his ears, and had a charlie chaplin like little moustache, he was thin and looked older than his years. These hair became more and more like a bird’s dishevelled nest as he grew more crazy. He used to look at people and he would see gold and cash walking, he used to have dreams of oceans of gold coins, of the moon being a silver plate and the sun being a great gold shield.

To the people, it looked as if he was becoming something else - not a human, but a fine robot machine, people at that time had never heard of robots, so they were in awe of this first time phenomenon.

Then, one day, Gopi sunar started dancing in his gold shop, dancing like an absolute madman, like a dervish, he threw the coins in the shop everywhere, all the jewelry he simply threw in the streets outside, all the precious things to buy in his shop were now in the streets or in the street side drains. People, the people of Kharkhoda, looked at him and saw a twinkle in his eyes. He declared in this state that his love for money was now absolute, and has turned into the love for Laxmi goddess…

© Manan sheel.

Gladdening!

When 

a koel sings,

in those moments 

when notes flow

out of her throat,

to gladden the hearts

of all those listening,

or all those busy

with their life,

who will

one day

listen,

then, won't 

a million light years away

a few stars be born,

given birth by the melody

in the notes, of this koel,

Does this event seem

impossible to you?

then, what you see

all around you,

every little thing,

every music,

the peace and colors

in the flowers,

the light filled

stars of the leaves,

the nectar in the fruits 

and how they refresh

your throat, your life,

the dancing of your mind,

the singing of your heart,

how is all that possible?

© Manan sheel.