The discomfort lingered for several hours after watching the play. As a regular citizen, it had struck a chord, but even more so, it had pricked his artistic ego. He had never imagined such a work. He began to doubt his own work, questioning its relevance and significance. The entire artistic approach of Kolkata seemed larger yet provincial to him. He saw the play two more times—once at the Met in Delhi and once at the Goethe-Institut in Kolkata. Each time, it evoked the same feeling. Was he thinking about that play? The desire to write a script of that caliber had been brewing within him for days.
But Kaurav had yet to face the real struggles of life. To write such a script, one needed a sense of desperation that he hadn’t experienced. He had yet to encounter the harsh realities of life and politics. One day, he had an extensive discussion about this play with Roni. He was restless, saying, “I am still indifferent to my responsibilities! I haven’t understood this era yet. I don’t know what I should write. Why should I learn about what happens to me every day by watching it on stage?”
Roni listened solemnly but felt a deep sense of joy for Kaurav. He also thought about the play’s success—it had truly become art. He had only one response for Kaurav: “Just stay. Your language and medium will guide you to your work.” Kaurav didn’t fully understand the meaning; he still only imagined and got lost in his imagination. The wind seeped through the window. The wind has the name of a human being, ‘Modi’.
Kaurav stared absently out the window. The outspoken moonlight lay bare and unabashed, with the trees frantically seeking places to hide their faces. The sky was opening up, one blazing meteor after another, as if in a final consummation with the moon, causing the stars to lose their bonds and tumble to the earth. He felt as if he were the progeny of that moon, destined to be born as Mercury from the womb of stars. His vehicle moved forward, advancing through the unabashed moonlight. In that moist glow, Kaurav seemed to slip and slide away. Inside the vehicle, Hindi songs filled the air with their clamour. Inside the vehicle, a heavy silence reigned. Someone seemed to open the gateway of his Sushumna. A deep sigh swept away all his memories and entered there.
He remembered the question, “Who are you?”—the question Roni had asked him during his first workshop. That was where he first heard Kabir playing, not for any production, but for himself. What raga was that? He couldn’t recognize it. He only understood that the melody was draining away his entire identity, leaving him with no strength to resist. Oh God, is this what art is? Is this then the cherished earning of the day?
In response to Roni’s question, Kaurav remained silent. The one who usually had an answer to every question found himself speechless in the face of life’s profound queries. This was how he grew. The window was fogged with droplets of condensation, and he stared absently beyond it.
Disclaimer
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. The views and opinions expressed in this novel are those of the characters and do not necessarily reflect the official policy or position of any agency, organization, or entity. Reader discretion is advised.