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Saturday, April 16, 2011

Designer diaries


The after-after-after party is a norm, so I bring home a new rabbit. Fresh into the jungle, just like I like! I am Tahir Kesu.
But why am I talking like we are in a lion king movie... because there is little humanity involved in what I am about to do. The thought used to bother me before but now it is like- when in jungle, be junglee!
Turns to look at me, he sees my adoring eyes... lets out an audible shiver. This is a crucial moment for a perceptive guy like me; because I can hear his angels talk to him... give it their last shot and I will drown their voices before they can penetrate into him, for I can’t lose him at this hour even at the cost of him losing self forever. Anyways he should have thought this through before putting himself on the shelf. So, ‘a glass filled with the best wine he has ever had’, I tell him where the wine has come from and how much it costs- For it’s this knowledge that will intoxicate him. Chugs, angels damned, he got himself served!
My turn now, 4 glasses and some pot, I am ready to eat.
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He waits for me to get up, mind blank... or too full. Gathers his belongings, never looking at the mirror, tangled hair, wet face, mind, heart (How else can he be, I feel for him. Really), leaves before I can see him see himself like that.
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Some more pot for me, fuck why do I have to be such a nice person. And it’s not like he isn’t sympathising enough with himself. Anyways...
I check my mail.
‘Hello Sir, My name is Shivam. I am 19 years old, aspiring model. Have attached along some pictures (They are home clicked sans make up)...
I have followed your collections and your next interests me especially, I feel I can model that very well.
My contact details are attached along too. Take care’
Hmmmm... Interesting!
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My head aches, especially too. I need some fresh air. So I go to the balcony (Haven’t done that in a while). Wow! It feels so different, the rays of the sun without sunscreen on my face. Like they’re passing through me! I close my eyes.
Open them to see Rahul, my hot neighbour; he is an artist, spread out his canvas on the floor. He is into this crazy form of oil painting, its mad! I tell you... the way he works on the canvas! Walking over it pouring weirdly colours that seem to know where to fall and what shade to take. His brushes move like wands, I mean with such simple strokes he creates such brilliant shapes. (I think he knows who I am, and also that I try to include elements from his design and technique into my clothes.) Looks to me, I wave in admiration, both for his work and face!
‘Morning brother’
‘Morning Sir, Late night?’
‘Yeah... I was working on some designs’, I lie.
‘Oh good’, he smiles.
The rays of the sun are acting on me; something tells me it’s my lucky day. So I want to make the most of it... I ask,
‘Buddy, you have to tell me the secret behind how you do this stuff. You know maybe we could come up with a clothesline based on your designs. It will be sensational... and outrageously rewarding’, I try to tempt.
He smiles, his dashing youthful smile, and says. ‘It’s no secret, I am sure you can create the same designs, even better on your own.’
What he doesn’t know is that I HAVE tried to ‘re’-create his designs but even when they look the same, they are never as impactful. Like there is some colour or something missing. It’s bloody frustrating.
The irritation fills me.
I want to tell him this, when I see...
On his knees, Rahul bows to kiss his canvas.
And the moment he does, it sort of lights up! The secret.
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Tears run down my eyes, and I can’t stand anymore.
Flashes of my mother praying before the pile of sarees every day before she sat to stitch them tower on me!
The secret.
The secret.
The secret.
An artist’s GOD, his CANVAS.
And all I have done is abused mine.
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*One of talent industries’ grass root enemy: Casting Couch must be done with!
Artists: Don’t abuse your canvas. Don’t abuse your God.

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