The author in his fictitious acct of a salesman, elicits his obsession for Black and White
|"I see no verse.."
(ah! worse would do no grave injustice either)
"..to the walls that bar me"
,says Sri Harijan Tripathi, henceforth Mr. B.L.A.C.K White
He dwells in a busty by lane
one of many that snake through the city
and this one is shoddy and crowded
perhaps a little more than the others
Cow dung on the walls
that anyways have taken wear
for the city is but old
this Mr. B.L.A.C.K White dwells on
Melancholy in his voice? Nah!
And not purely a case for his big heart
for, reader, he but sits in the groove
lending the gully a sound audience!
Yes, in the posterior of his house
on his comfortable bamboo chair
that is but a few yards from the gully
...from all the mayhem!
Now, some justice to the reader
for i mock, not the reader
and most certainly not Mr. B.L.A.C.K White
but my own prejudice
The reader must wonder, why Mr. B.L.A.C.K White?
Yes, the gully is color stripped
hence dealing in close to black and white
but wouldn't that again be mockery!
I, being a mere narrator
intend not to mock
for that would be a crime!
So here is my due explanation-
First, Mr. B.L.A.C.K White is a salesman
and owns a handicraft store
(again, one of many in the gully!)
which sure earns him a fortune
Owner of handicraft store, Mr. B.L.A.C.K White?
Reader! Bear with me a little
His works are vibrant and lovely
as lovely as the gully, he says!
The gully where all peddle alike
walkers, cycles, and even cars
and where a very interesting game of cricket
is interrupted by the peddlers
He stops by a tea stall after work
(again reader, one of many!)
socializing with other salesmen
who talk sales figures
A chance look, every now and then
at the patchy walls, and the corners
and trousers that have worn off from prolonged use
and back to the conversation over Mr. Sharma's Chikan Kurtis
Mr. B.L.A.C.K White adores his old scooter
the one he drives to work
more for the color, or lack of it
than even the sound, which again would be intriguing
So, what is it that fascinates him?
Says he, in his local dialect, Bhojpuri
"I find the colors, always i do
where others but don't seek them"
"The colors are many, seemingly lost in black
and just as many in white, seemingly reunited
stop walking, and watch in the static
they are not so black, and not so white"
"If i were an author..", says he
"..i would put them in a free verse
to swing as wild on hues as they do"
and that, reader, is my prejudice gone wrong