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 |   As the first blog entry got exhausted. My second book |
| Evolution of Love Part 2 |
| He looked at his watch and it showed 7:30AM, probably he would be late but then who cared. His master piece was ready. It had taken him the entire night to complete it and he had finally managed to make the perfect flawless creation. Crimson Red he thought and smiled as the first drops of rain began to fall. The soft feel of those first drops of rain as they touched his face was so nice and comforting. Rains he thought...the giver of life, a birth of a new hope and a new beginning as the past gets washed away. The past always lurked in the background like ghosts haunting him every minute. Everyday had been a struggle to survive. Night after night he slept hungry on an empty stomach with salty silent tears of shame, pain flowing silently down his cheeks. Biru, was that his name or was it not ? He could not remember. It was so long ago since someone called him that especially after he dropped off from school in what seemed an eternity. Since then he had got used to being addressed as Ai, Oi, Hotobhaga, Kamchor, Opdartho .. may be one of this was actually his name. But who cared? He stopped caring the day his father, a daily labourer died leaving him, a seven year old boy with no money, no shelter and no family. Since then it was a struggle for survival every passing minute, living off wastes from the kitchen discards of the well to do house holds. Clothes he wore were those which were thrown by the affluent after using them as dusting cloth. Even the remotest thought of school disappeared from his dreams like his father. Life was a bitter struggle. Life in the one tiny room cramped up in the ‘bosti bari’ had not been easy. It was a struggle from dusk to dawn to survive. The entire locality was full of anti social elements who did not hesitate to pull our their folding knives or country made pistols amidst narcotic blankets of thick swirling smoke. But he resisted with all his might. He was not going to be one of them, no matter what. He had struggled every minute of growing up against these hoodlums. So many times he was assaulted, beaten up and left bleeding by the dirty locality sewer just because he refuse to join them. He was determined to be a good, honest and a responsible citizen. He was not going to bow down because he was ‘Ajit’. Getting a job was not easy especially with his background but luck had been kind to him and the local grocer had taken him as an assistant and delivery boy to deliver groceries to the house holds in the neighbourhood. The grocer thanked the Gods for providing him with such a honest, dedicated and hardworking boy. The boy was indeed an assest thought the grocer and smiled. He smiled too. It had been a tough week with back breaking effort. He had hardly slept at night except maybe an occasional doze off. But finally it was ready and he lovingly held it in his hand. The colour was an exact match to the colour of his skin he thought. From a distance the camera would not be able to even detect that almost negligible shade difference. He was destined to be the perfect make up artist. His destiny would be created when the ‘hero’ would get hit by the car and the little skin coloured rubber blood mould would burst open spilling red liquid all over the hero as he would lie motionless in the Crimson Red as the cameras would keep panning. It had taken him lot of lot of effort to create the Crimson Red. It was not one of those cheap ketchup or coloured liquid. Instead it was a creation of an artists hand. It had the right thickness, viscosity and colour.. it was the perfect Crimson Red. Crimson Red Take 1 End Scene... ‘Action !!’ shouted the director. He smiled and started to cross the road. The rain had turned into a drizzle. He felt nice. Life was beautiful. His eyes bright and full of new dreams. Then it happened like a bolt of lightening from the blue. He did not see it coming. Maybe it was the speed or the rain but the impact was earth shattering and it threw him clean into the air almost 10 feet away like a broken rag doll. He violently started gasping for breath as wound after after wound in his head started splitting open and turning Red while rivulets of Crimson Red flowed like a gushing rivers in spate. ‘Cut !!’ yelled the director. ‘Excellent shot’ said the beaming director ‘absolutely natural’ ... my God, Ajit, that blood looks so damn real, he said. Ajit could not suppress his smile as he saw the effect of his handiwork... ‘Crimson Red’. His breathing got heavier with every convulsion, every breath was a struggle for an extra moment of life which was slipping away at unbelievable speed every single second. Slowly the bright skies started turning dark. Shrieking and yelling like a cacophony of noise pierced his ears. Darkness surrounded him. The sounds kept getting quieter and Biru simply drifted into oblivion as his lifeless body lay on the street , shattered by a speeding car and now he lay there totally covered in Crimson Red. He held up the small vial he had carried just incase it was required... He smiled as he lovingly looked at his creation... Ajit’s creation... |
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