The Artistic Process

“So I shall tell you a story.

And I hope you feel like listening.
It is a story about a boy who had a lot of stardust in his head. Stardust and all the colours that the Almighty sneezed on this universe. 

He was an okay sort of boy. He was tall. He was short. He was drunk. He was emotional. He was kissable. He was brother-zoned. He was all smiles and toe-curling guffaws. He was all silent sobs after nightmares.

He was contradictory.

He was extremely okay.

He was extremely human.

I think it was a day when the flowers prepared themselves to abandon branches. A day when things turned. It was on this day that the boy with stardust in his head told his mother that he was going to meet the Creator.

Meet. And give him a basket of fruit. Invite him over for a smoke. Or beer? Or maybe tea. Yes. Tea seemed like a better option. And then, exchange stories. Stories about the Artistic Process of Creation. The one where yarns of a thousand colours were woven together to form a single unit of togetherness. A unit of togetherness that yearns to tear itself apart every single day.

It is now twenty and seven years since the heart shaped face of his mother had set itself into a smile that could warm up a snowman; a smile with just the right amount of sunshine. She had told him “Well, if that’s your plan, then we shouldn’t waste time now, should we?”

And yes, darling. He met the Creator. The Creating Process was talked of over tea. It was not as compelx as humans make it out to be, apparently. It was preserving the creation, ensuring that it did not crumble in on itself, that was hard. 
And that is how their friendship commenced.


But,

A while ago, the Creator passed.

The boy with stardust in his head tried to fill his shoes. 

But he wished to paint this world differently. To bring in new colours. Maybe a little fushia in the sea or silver in the rainbows? Maybe a little laughter in the winds or how about anti-gravity? 

How about . . . A new Creator?

A Different one.

And that was where the choas blossomed: In the stardust filled head of that boy. 
And it spread to each and every corner of the canvas like Cancer occupying the cells, like a vagabong strolling through towns with only a song or two to keep him company. 

It spread and wherever it touched the canvas, it left behind destruction: New colours in negative shades of broken dreams and loopholed hopes. 

Trees suffocated beside children. Homes broken down and packed and moved away to Heaven. Or to another country. 

Hope decided to seep out of the Creation. 
Today, Hope is still seeping and we cannot stop it.

And today, we blame the boy with his head full of stardust.

If only he had stuck to the colours of this world and had not gone on a quest to look for the colours of every other world. 

If only-

Dart will you look at the time?

I need to rush, dearie. Forgive me but it’s time for my Namaz. 

I shall complete the story another day.

If we live to see each other.”

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