Reality smells, Fart and the Neo-Indian Grotesque Art

My friend does something which is called 'arty-farty programming'(Arts Programming). I have nothing against the arts or programming part, what amuses me is the farty part. Why farty?? Is that really bad?  A lot has been spoken and written about that arty part. So, let me elaborate on the farty part, at the risk of being termed as irritating, mindless or whichever adjective you may choose.

Since childhood we Bongs are taught Fart or Paad/Gas Maara (break the wind) is something disgusting and that we shouldn’t fart in public. So, as a child I guess each one us had to find our very own farting place, away from the olfactory glands of others. Well, I know farting is smelly but it’s so natural. According to the dictionary: an emission of intestinal gas from the anus, esp an audible one. See, how natural it is!

I can bet on my imaginary millions pounds stashed in a Swiss Bank account, that every one farts, some admit and some don’t. I admit once again, farts can be disgusting to our sense of smell but please let us not take that ‘holier than thou attitude’ and reduce it to a taboo. You can take out your hanky to cover your nose when you get the smell of fart and get irritated, but please ‘don’t pretend that you don’t fart, as your intestines are listening.’

I see columns on how to find the right partner, they give shitty advice, don’t follow them. Listen to me: fart in a closed room with that ‘would be partner in life’ sitting next to you. If you get a reaction, after which you will remember to suppress your 'future' farts , in front of that person, then reader you are doomed for life. You really need to get out of that relationship!

Perhaps, thinking really irrationally we can have an exhibition on ‘fart being the purest form of art’ as it emanates from the inside of the human body. We can say 'Fart' is the neo-Indian Grotesque Art, as it hits your sense of smell directly and thus leading to the involuntary realisation of the grotesqueness of the 'art' itself.

Nicely theorized!

Yes, I can go on and on with that, because everyone I know farts, just that they have a very good place to hide that smell.

PS: I started it with my friend being an arty-farty programmer, well lost that thread. Some other time,if the farts come out well.

The Lecher and his women

He looked at her in a crowded subway, brushing every inch of her with his eyes. The woman became aware of his intense gaze. She thought, “Damned lecher.”

He threw one last look at her, he liked her hands, soft yet firm. He had his fill for the day. He got down at a station and made his journey upwards into the real world. He reached home, all the while thinking about the woman in the subway.

He sat down on his stool and holding a paint brush in his right hand. The colour drenched brush moved on the canvas like raindrops on a eucalyptus leaf. Unbeknownst to the ‘woman in the subway’, the lecher captured her on his canvas.

She was the eleventh woman who had fallen prey to his gaze. He took time to choose his women, after having realised that real women travel on the subway and don’t come in chauffeur driven cars to exhibitions, to have a glass of wine and indulge in a little bit of art. Twenty-years and a broken marriage had made him a good judge of women; he felt that he knew more about them then they could imagine.

The painting was  done, a couple of days and the wetness on the canvas would evaporate.

One month later

He needed just one woman. He was again standing on a subway station. He saw the train approaching. But as it neared he could make out two compartments on the front which had the word ‘Ladies’ painted boldly.

He got on one of the general coaches. There were no women. He got down on the next station, with an uncanny feeling in the pit of his stomach. He felt betrayed by the women whom he had possessed for all the 11 months. He owned them. He took a deep breath, and waited for the next train to rightfully claim what was his.

This time he got on a ‘Ladies Coach’. They looked at him with disgust. But he was oblivious to their stern gaze. He began his search for his final muse. He looked around intensely. Suddenly he felt a heavy hand on his shoulder.

“This is a ladies compartment.”

A fierce looking female police constable was staring at him; more vicious was her red bindi between her eyebrows. Somehow he stood transfixed in the face of her fierceness.

She shouted, “Hey what’s in my face. Get going or I will…”

Her next words were drowned by the rush of the wheels, as the train entered a station.

As the story nears its end

“Rage, Love, Indifference…you have elegant names for your works”, said a middle aged woman holding a glass of cheap wine. He smiled; he was tired of ‘connoisseurs’ like her who seemed to know more about a creation, than the creator himself. The evening progressed and at 9PM he was at the subway station again. The train rushed in ruffling his pepper salt hair. He went inside one of the ‘Ladies’ coaches. Some of them  gave him puzzled looks  and some were lost in thought or in sleep.

He looked at them cheerfully and gave a smile to the ones who were staring at him.He gave a gentlemanly bow and said, “Thank You for making it possible.” Hearing this the ‘connoisseurs’ clapped their hands and the curtains fell; as the show got over the lecher let go of his ‘Subway Women’.

  

 Disclaimer: Nothing in this story bears resemblance to anything (including the glass of cheap wine or the fiery red bindi). Only the nameless subway women bear resemblance and can be found on any train between 7-10.30 (Monday –Saturday). 

Image: The Lecher, Oil Miniature by Jindřich (Henry) Ulrich, Prague.