Passion ***

Bhupathi was in a reverie. He smiled as he watched the pencil move effortlessly. The pattern that emerged was magical. The shades of grey were impossibly perfect. Each had its own intricate meaning, its own story to tell. Each shape came to life as he watched. A magnificent fairy tale. Bhupathi put down the pencil. He watched the page. The diagrams and formulae blurred to oblivion. Only the pattern he had created remained. It was exhilarating and energizing.

A rude knock on his head startled Bhupathi. He almost fell off the chair from the force of the blow.“What the hell are you doing? You dumb imbecile? You have doodled all over your text book. What’s wrong with this boy? He is just hopeless. Have you no shame... ”, the words, jarring at first, soon became a monotonous drone. Bhupathi stood by the chair. He felt nothing. He heard nothing. But he longed to be alone with his fantasy again. Maheswaran was livid. He could sense Bhupathi ignoring him totally, and this incensed him even more. He flew into a rage, and threw the book, the bag and a few other things he found on the table at his son. He then stomped off, shaking in anger. Vennila came over and comforted him. “Look, Mahes, calm down. Your shouting is not doing any good. And it’s late. We have to leave now.”

***

Bhupathi was alone and hungry. The SPM results had come that morning. As expected, he had just scraped through. Except for the languages. And of course art, where he got a high A. His parents had gone on and on all morning. His father had all but disowned him. And now they had gone away. Bhupathi was alone. And hungry. But as he sat at the window, he sensed a different hunger.

***

Bhupathi packed a few essentials. His favourite T-shirt, shorts, toothbrush. And of course the colour pencils and crayons. He walked out of the house. It did not even occur to him to lock the place. He just walked out.

***

The loud honking woke Bhupathi. He sat up, and wiped the dribble of saliva from the corner of his mouth. The bus was empty and dark. Bhupathi got off. As he walked, he felt an indescribable joy. The sun was rising. Everything was ok.

***

Bhupathi sat at the park. The charcoal sketch was a haunting abstract. A crowd of onlookers stood in silence watching Bhupathi’s fine moves. As he finished and stood up. The crowd burst into ovation. Bhupathi bowed. Then he took the piece and presented it to an old man, who was watching uncertainly from the fringes of the crowd. The man was moved to tears, and as he sobbed, Bhupathi hugged him.