The air was still. The floor
polishers, hammers, saws and drills that groaned throughout the day rested
silently like tired young children who have played longer than what they could
endure. The wooden support structure
that served the purpose of enabling movement up and down the partially
constructed building creaked as he bent forward. About three storeys high, he
inclined at an impossible angle. Achieving it by resting his hands
alternatively on the wall each time he scraped out the extra cement on the
wall. His eye squinted in the flickering light to observe the protruding portions
of the wall. His hand followed his vision and he gave a confirmative nod as his
fingers felt the asymmetry of the surface. With a tiny metal piece that was
strapped with sand paper on either side he started his chore. He blew away the
chipped off excess cement in a practiced manner after every screeching stoke he
made on the wall. His black hair was grey with dust.
Here was a man, a perfectionist,
an artist of his own kind- a Dewaar
Kariger. Slight buzz of desi daaru, gentle breeze that made his skin feel
soft like that of a child, the day mellowed down by the night and only a dash
of yellow street lamp to add to the moonlight- that was when he worked his
magic. He would be summoned only for the
luxurious buildings that demanded stark perfection. With the credit of
smoothing the walls of great museums to MLA houses to perfection he was the man
who needed no introduction. He was often referred as Deewana Dewaar Karigar, Museum Wala. With the exception of long
lost family and childhood friends nobody knew his real name. He too preferred
to be called- Deewana. His name Amit flooded him with memories of his
mother calling out to him on the crowded street. He preferred not to be
reminded of the past. Deewana was what he had become. And, the
identity of Deewana Dewaar Karigar
was his source of livelihood.
It was only in the moments of
solitude like this, when his hand monotonously preformed the act while his mind
eased under the influence of little alcohol that he strayed into the streets of
the past. Of a beautiful childhood, a social discord, a journey of discovering
an art and, the evolving of an orphaned Amit
into Deewana.
“Arreh, spread it nicely. It
should be smooth!” Kattu Kaka and his clicking of the tongue, “ Tch tch tch…
Smooth Smooth..” he used to lift Amit’s hand and rub it against the wall. “Feel
the flatness of the surface! Smooth… Smooth. Get it?” He never liked Kattu Kaka as a kid but now he
smiled whenever he thought about him. He had met him on one of the construction
sites. He was struggling to pick up the bricks with his barely ten year old
tender hands when Kattu Kaka had called out to him, “Oye Bacche! Come here..
leave those bricks and help me with this.”
He had instructed him squat on the floor next to cement mix poured into
a pail and handed him a flat piece of metal with a handle. It was that 2 feet
patch from the floor that Kattu Kaka found difficult to work on. Amit’s small
frame could mange it with ease. Kaka
squatted next to him and showed him the basic movements to flatten the surface
of a newly built wall. It was on one such occasion that Amit had discovered the
beauty of the chore.
The repeated reprimands and an
occasional slap at the back of his head made Kattu Kaka a monster in his
premature mind. When he was about twelve he fled to Kolkatta with a group of
construction men he had befriended. Over the years he met many Dewaar Karigars
in different places with different styles and approaches to the task but the
artistry behind that job was Kattu Kaka’s gift to him. However he appreciated the man he never
thought of going back to him. He was by himself now.
On the majestic smooth wall of a
glorious building that gleamed under the golden rays of the sun nobody noticed
the faint print of a kiss - an artist’s token of admiration of his own art. When the morning dew settled on the wooden
structure and traces of day appeared on the still dark sky, Deewan Dewaar Karigar
slipped his tools into the back of his trouser and silently disappeared with a couple of hundred that would nourish
him with the required food and make him dizzy
with some alcohol. His price wasn’t the money it was that momentary escape into
the life that was numbed by reality and that pride of having delivered a
perfect art.
The End
