How to tell an Antlion from a Damselfly?

I am at the traffic junction, between a black Mercedes and a beggar limping with extended hands that held some coins. I look at the beggar and then at the man tapping his fingers on the steering. This is absurd I thought how could two worlds be so unreal. But I had to choose and choose one world at a time, enter and strip for my voyeuristic delight. The hopeless beggar looked an easy option, since I hadn’t (yet) perfected the art of slipping through window panes. It is not that I am not trying, I try it every morning but window panes are the toughest. I close my eyes utter some mumbo jumbo and here I am inside the body of the beggar. What a miserable fellow he is. I don’t understand his thoughts but I know I am hungry and decide to go to nearest restaurant, I am not allowed in. I gave a loud curse, the ferocity even surprise me. The thought of food seem etched in my mind, every action guided to fulfill this mission.

In the forest by the bush lived a spider that spins its web. Late into the noon a damselfly got trapped in the net. The dainty fly was least petrified and asked the Orb if eating make him less happy. The spider reflected on the query and said he never thought about what he ate.

So here I am, begging has become my second nature. The moment I see someone approaching, I slouch a bit, exaggerate my limp and contort my face into gloominess that had reason to excite empathy. I though am concerned about my behavior since it has acquired a cloak of instinctiveness that I regret. I want to have a control, a say on how I approach a situation. I want to strategize, to study each individual’s worth before exhibiting my craft. I don’t want to waste my artistry of misery on philistines. I spent time in observing, collecting critical information –like for instance footwear can tell lot about the person. An old clean pair was sure sign of not only stingy but natural immunity to histrionics.

Damselfly was confident of her ability of guise. She asked if the wise spider doesn’t think an elegant creature like her should live more than a mere insect. The spider had begun to spin his web around her, making her immobile. Then the spider sat to ponder.

I am getting used to my desolate soul. I walk all day without much purpose. Sometimes a sight catches my fancy and I hang around the vicinity, meanwhile contemplating nothing. The thought of what I wear or where I go don’t seem to be my concern. It really didn’t matter as long as I get something to eat. I stand next to an eatery, the sight exaggerate my senses. The anguish is real and difficult to ignore by humane. This is what I like, to be around food. But I am asked to move; a guard came and pushes me aside. He hit me with stick and tries to kick me. I trip sideways. Tricked him didn’t I. He warns me of dire consequence. I defecate in my trouser, it dribbles along my leg. I can feel it go all the way down. I enjoy it, so I smile, though it does labor my stroll. I sometimes get the urge of keeping my legs apart and walk. It isn’t funny though.

The spider’s query: what difference it makes to me? Damselfly wasn’t distressed, she knew it takes time. You will see all the beautiful around you. It’s a matter of aesthetics, she said. It’s what pleases the eyes.

I am sitting and tapping my legs. I search my memory to find any remnants of what I might have been. The past is a difficult matter but I must still try. The sun is hot and dripping heat. There aren’t many people on the street. A crow disembowels a dead rat. I am recalling a house that has no garden. Wait a minute there isn’t any house. Sure there is I tell myself. So it must be. I don’t like arguments. It is a small house in brick paint and creepers climbing the wall. The door opens to the forest. I am in the forest. Isn’t that a spider I see happily feeding on a damselfly? Or is it an antlion? What difference does it make?

The diagonal

The paintings are placed with substantial gaps between them, so that there is too much wall a soothing creamy coloured wall. The wall is tall and end in array of ventilators that are rectangular small slits, afternoon summer sun burn through the splits in eye numbing brightness. The room is like a deep tight pit with no windows and only thing that could enter from the street outside was muted faint but incessant calls of cuckoo from the tree in the courtyard. There was nobody else in the gallery and I could hear echoes of my own footsteps, the panels of the floor are in alternative squares of light blue and brick red. It was an unusual choice of colours, it increased the thickness in the air. Environment of the room though was controlled as indicated from the readings on the instrument hung on the bottom corner: Temp:27, Hum:68%. On the stool next sat the security guard in bright blue outfit and a matching cap, he drowsed. His hands lay limp towards the floor. I am now standing in front of the painting that covers few feet of the wall, it is about the size of a window. There are dismembered limbs, a head sink in deep blue vastness, it is frozen in anguish, a perpetual soulful anguish in a hopeless mess. A sharp unyielding cruel yellow streak through the canvass, in a brutal finality. I shook and see the painting disturbed by my silhouette, the unkempt hair seeping out, I am held. It turns ash with a surprise, a surprise not auguring pleasant. The features on the faces are almost indistinct, it is as if a terrifying thought was summoned and instantly exited. It was a peculiar face, an expression that wasn’t supposed to be there. It was unbelievable, not seen even on dead faces that saw worst of violations.

The horror of dying mixed in astonishment of recognizing the faces of perpetrators. It was a devastating expression, of loss and incomprehension. The disconnected limbs are contorted in dissipation, life has oozed out slowly, deliberately. A disembodied palm bloom in complete submission while a female torso in revolting pale orange makes a futile attempt to wriggle out. The contrast with blackness is gruesome. I stand there in rising sense of uneasiness. The man sleeping on the stool had his head dug into the belly, and could fall over any moment. I was immobilized, the red and blue of the floor panel seem moving, and spinning at tremendous speed, I am loosing myself. I am being broken into pieces. The anguish trapped in the painting could be heard now. So much sobbing fills my ear that I cover them, still no avail I pluck them. I see the blood, I can feel it, there is so much warmth in the pain. Only voice I now yearn to hear is that of the cuckoo on the tree outside.

(painting by Tyeb Mehta IGCNA Bangalore)