The Painter

He was a recluse on the run ,
a hippy on the highway
or just a painter who travelled incognito .
He was the McKinsey man in SEZ Gurgaon ,
watching the bar graphs reach out high
He would take notice of the numbers embedded in between ,
solve complex arithmetic .
Math gave life to these otherwise boring straight lines .
He was the Ranbaxy representative watching the pills fall from the closet ,
like he could have painkillers for lunch
Or the automobile spare part dealer in Faridabad
Painting out shades of grey and steel
Giving his work a raw and rustic feel
Sometimes the ruffian in Bengal,
Who had just woken up from the bloody street fights
Or just drowning himself in the cultural milieu
Watching the air take a snap of autumn on it
He would become breathless on Friday
Suffer from an invisible illness on Saturday
Run a marathon on Sunday
Run till a barbed wire fence separated civilization and madness
And then wait for the climax
And like every other story , his too would have a long climax
a long winding and an unending one
He would just sit there
Waiting for colors to fall from nowhere
And fill the void
Just like it would happen to those beautiful actresses
In those soft drink ads