Distortions

Around 10.45 pm

4th July

Strange evening it was!

Here goes the setting. First floor of Hypercity, a really bad flooring, grey tiles, crudely arranged stuffs, unfinished looks of the mall and a sense of “I know this name but....things are just not so good here...”.

Well I am in new city.

And this insect of exploration was bunjee-jumping inside me since the time I left for my temporary house from work. With all the confused enthusiasm, I started from my temporary house and caught the local bus, knowing that nothing will be gained in this whimsical trip to some mall I planned to visit, rather, explore; and that it's completely unsafe to roam around in the evening at new places, rather, at places like the ones I am having a temporary stay....a complete village structure. Spoils the name of the city... the beautiful city of Bangalore.

Around 7.30 pm I boarded this very strange bus where the driver plays the dual role of a driver and a conductor, sitting with a small metal box of tickets, immediately issuing the tickets to passenger boarding the bus from the front door, while handling the steering wheel of large radius with slight touches of elbows and forearm like a complete expert. It wasn't my first time in that bus. I travelled in such a bus, I guess, day-before-yesterday also. Nevertheless.

The killer traffic in this ugly village junction gave my swing second thoughts of whether I really should be out at this time and what the deadline of reaching back should I set for myself. For some very brief period of time I almost felt like I am in some African country I cannot name, whose language is beyond clarity of syllables, where I am wandering aimlessly, like a tourist, where ever the bus takes me. All I knew was that – my safety is in my own hands.... and still - I was out!

Those scary feelings are due to the gender to which I belong. I wonder if every girl has those fears when she is alone. Those fears suddenly make me conscious of my body, looks, clothes and belongings, making me alert even of the cockroaches crawling up the walls of the gutters beneath the yellow-black stripped footpath. Strange indeed! Just to mention in this context, my eyes caught the sight of two huge cockroaches, whose whiskers, I thought for a moment, I should catch hold of, were moving around in the dark on footpath on my way back to my temporary home in village. Well, that happened on the return journey.

Continuing the story of the strange evening....

I finally ended up at Crosswords in Hypercity, where, as usual, I found my section and grabbed for myself a hard-bound copy of the most anticipating-ly amazing book, which is in my list of  'to read' since the start of this year, especially after the amazing review from Miss Avid Reader, The Picture of Dorain Gray by Oscar Wilde. And there I was on the red leather chair with the book in my hands,..... the feelings of enthusiasm, I cannot describe.

Started with the Preface.

I was astounded by the first two lines, which seemed to contain a 'black hole'-like gravity, sucked me totally inside them. I re-read for my hungry satisfaction.

The Picture of Dorian Gray by Oscar Wilde

Preface

“The ARTIST is the creator of beautiful things. To reveal art and conceal the artist is the art's aim.

The critic is he who can translate into another manner of a new material his impression of beautiful things. The highest, as the lowest, form of criticism is a mode of autobiography.

Those who find ugly meanings in beautiful things are corrupt without being charming. This is a fault. Those who find beautiful meanings in beautiful things are the cultivated. For these there is hope. They are the elect to whom beautiful things mean only Beauty.

There is no such thing as a moral or an immoral book. Books are well written, or badly written. That is all.

The nineteenth-century dislike of Realism is the rage of Caliban* seeing his own face in a glass. The nineteenth-century dislike of romanticism is the rage if Caliban not seeing his own face in a glass.

The moral of a man forms part of the subject-matter of the artist, but the morality of art consists in the perfect use of an imperfect medium.

No artist desires to prove anything. Even things that are true can be proved. No artist has ethical sympathies. An ethical sympathy in as artist is an unpardonable mannerism of style.

No artist is ever morbid. The artist can express everything.

Thought and language are to the artist instruments of an art.

Vice and virtue are to the artist materials for an art. From the point of view of form, the type of all the arts is the art of the musician. From the point of view of feeling, the actor's craft is the type.

All art is at once surface and symbol.

Those who go beneath the surface do so at their peril.

Those who read the symbol do so at their peril. It is the spectator, and not the life, that are really mirrors.

Diversity of opinion about work of art shows that work is new, complex, and vital.

When critics disagree the artist is in accord with himself.

We can forgive a man for making a useful thing as long as he does not admire it. The only excuse for making a useless thing is that one admires it intensely.

All art is quite useless.”

Oscar Wilde

So it ended.

And there I was, holding the biggest, -- still too pre-mature to call by these nouns, -- joke or sarcasm or  truth or senseless ideas or deadly poison, hunting my eagerness and curiosity down to the long forgotten corridors of my mind, unveiling the blankets to expose the unknown, unvisited, un-sought-after, questions lying dormant on the colourless couches of my conscience. The Picture of Dorian Gray! gave me distortion in truest sense, in subtlest form which pulled me inside the cream pages, winning that single-sided tug-of-war, I never realised I am a part of.

“The  ARTIST is the creator of beautiful things.”

Agreed.

“To reveal art and conceal artist is art's aim.”

What the! How am I suppose to interpret this? For first thing, the lack of the apposite adjective 'real', just before the last word, displaying the arrogant and straight confidence of Oscar Wilde,  grabbed my attention. But it wasn't just the statement or the (lack of) word per se, it was the reflection I saw, of my secrecy, giving my thoughts a strange form of, -- I take rightful pleasure in using this adjective for the very first time for my writing, -- beauty.

The flow was abrupt. I initially thought the preface to be a set of basic definitions, of the most common words we encounter, set by author for the ease of transition into his book, to put forth his ideas prominently. But. I realised that I am going through a complete belief system of the most amazing writer. Again too pre-mature to say that. Still.

Down amongst the next few lines were those words which I love the most, which reminded me of a delightful conversation I had with Young Lady, who agrees to them with equal accord.

“There is no such thing as a moral and an immoral book. Books are well written or badly written”.

Gives a blow straight in face to anyone reading the book. It's like the utmost pride in the arms of a body builder, the extreme sense of  “I am always right.”, the ever-dominating, ever-powerful  dictator attitude. Period.

“That is all.”

So, is the beauty being described here, really the external appearance? As I read through the preface, pondering over each statement as much as I can, with all my energy and little brain, pulling a nerve to make sense and justify the lines for myself, the word came up with a shallow meaning. (Honstely, I am avoiding the adjectives.....inspired by rash but straight setup of language of the Author....to improve my own writing...for my own benefit....for the beauty.)

The ideas on morality come to me on perfect time when I think of my start here. “Moral life of a man forms part of the subject matter of the artist...” Anyways, after morality, another words under my scrutiny are – art and artist. “Morality of art consist in the perfect use of an imperfect medium. No artist desires to prove anything.” Oh man! There is just so much in this which I could relate to. My existence and crystal-clear attitude can be kept straight with these bold statements. I act for my own selfish passion. It may be unpolished art by I love it to the core. I do it for myself.

“It is the spectator, and not life, that are really mirrors.” (I doubt the use of adjective here.....will check it some other time...) Now this gives me weird ideas. What if the I am the reflection caught in  some 3D world inside mirrors and that pretty face, staring back at me through the silver coating on the backside of the glass, is laughing at my senseless thoughts, pitying my vanity, wondering how I will react when she finally decides to speak to me. Wow! That is madness indeed! I am a figment of my imagination. How do I exist then? Hah! Funny! Like two hungry dinosaurs plunging into each other to eat each other and then disappearing with a boom! Gone. The only difference being, I create myself and destroy myself. There is no other me. I disappear like a black-hole sucking itself.

Anyway, I am in no accord with myself. I am distorted. My ideas are distorted. Nothing of what I think makes any sense. Whatever I create makes no sense. Whatever I indulge in makes no sense. “All art is quite useless.”

Preface ended.

And I ended up writing the entire preface in my small pocket diary. I couldn't help but finish the first chapter there itself in one go and was introduced to Lord Henry, the man of 'poisonous theories'. Around 8.45 pm I left the place, satisfied in my distortion, with compulsive questions bombarding my mind. The Kannad script on the bus made no sense, much like what I had read in the Preface. So I asked the driver for Borewell and boarded the bus; the same strange bus with the dual-role driver, took the first window seat facing the crowd and was thinking of my obsessions, springing forth due to the first chapter. Surprisingly, I was no more scared of the opposite gender. I was so carelessly deep into thoughts that I missed my stop and had to get down at next stop and then walking all the way back through that dark road towards the village where I had my temporary house.

The road was slightly wet when I got down at subsequent stop. It was drizzling. I was without an umbrella but I did not care more. For a fraction of second, I thought about the much hyped climate of this new city, compared it to my own native city, felt pride for the heavy Mumbai rains and allowed the devil to scorn at the shaky and weak weather of Bangalore. Anew in my thoughts, I continued to walk.

I walked faster, saw the cockroaches, overtook the man walking fast on the footpath, ignored the people coming towards me, crossed the road to shorten the distance, kept walking, walking fast. Thinking about weird stuffs.

I allowed only the questions. I framed them as they rushed. Unfortunately, I, now, at 2.21 am in the morning at my temporary house in this village, can only recollect one of all the frenzy of questions – “What's wrong with my obsession?”

I walked in that frenzy, crossed the road, walked to the ATM only to find it out of order, turned back, walked, maintained my speed and entered the short-cut. I saw some ladies of the village and thought about the families who stay there. It is pretty much like my parents' native place. I deduced and resolved that I should not fear, despite the dark short-cut at the new place which was the village. I kept my pace anew in my thoughts. The packets of chips in the shop at distant were alluring me and I decided for Lays tomato flavour but unfortunately and then fortunately I did not find it in that shop. That want was a whim. I let it pass. Kept walking and almost ignored the next two shops, again in frenzy of questions which I very unfortunately do not remember, I kept the pace and took a right turn and only after I covered 2/3rd of the turn I realised that I had lost my way into that village. Surprisingly again, I was not more scared, I could have as well traced my path back to the shops I crossed on my way and again could have made my way home, but I decided to walk further down the last 3rd and see where I get. I was sure that the smaller roads will ultimately lead to the same main road. So I furthered my way down and peeped on the other side of the left turn. It almost seemed like the colony of my temporary home was some kind of a replica of the original one and that I had passed a forbidden shortcut and entered a world of mirror where I was trapped for life.

It was dark and the road was full of mud and dirty water. As I was making my way towards that replica, somebody flashed a torch on me and then on the road and mud and made his way through to the other side. I only got a little relief when I saw the watchman going inside his room to get me the keys for my temporary house. But what if that entire place was just a replica of the original place? I had forgotten all my thoughts. I entered my room, switched on the lights, turned on the television and saw Arnab Goswami shouting about the food security bill and breathed a sigh of reality. But again the pretty face in mirror, hanging in the bathroom, scared me to my bones. Amused with the idea of alternate reality, I tried to listen to what Smriti Irani was saying on Times Now and Headlines today at the same time. Whatever.

A talk with mom got me completely relaxed. But I decided to write about this. I am sure that the way I came through was not the same as I use in the morning. I'll figure that out tomorrow morning. My head aches badly.  Good night.

2.48 am

5th July