The Writer & The Painter - The Conclusion

"Do you accept this task, my friend?"

"Yes" she replied.

"Well then, start. What, do you think, will your first painting look like?"

"I know what it will represent. I do not know what it will look like. I have to visualize an idea. I do not know what I will end up creating. This is what separates a painter from a non-painter."

She set to work. She toiled night & day. Her hand danced on the canvas, at times tentative & unsure, at times in rhythm with a melody heard only by her. Her excitement became more & more palpable as she gave shape to the first of the paintings.

He became obsessed with what the first output would be. Wondering, guessing, analyzing. All else was secondary. He could not even start writing the book.

She presented it to him.

He took one look at it, and his face was red with chagrin & consternation.

"A master painter such as you, and you have drawn only one line."

"It is no ordinary line. Take a look again. Do you recognize what this is?"

"No"

"This is the normal distribution curve."

"And why have you drawn this?"

"I have drawn it for what it represents - possibility. The normal distribution typefies that. Under it lies entirety, wholeness. The sum of the area under it is 1. It is a mapping on the plane of life - from hope to possibility. And it extends till infinity. No matter how small the chance of something happening is, it is there. You exist in possibility. Your task was to make people realise that no matter what the desired outcome, it was possible. Your task was never to take people to their destination; You only gave them the the belief that they could make it there."

He remained silent. He had no answer.

She quietly continued with her 2nd painting. Many days passed.

When she brought it in front of him, nothing could have prepared him for the scene which unfolded. It was the most gruesome painting he had ever seen. He could not bear to look at it.
If this was her idea of a garden, it was a cruel joke. Was there ever a garden such as this? It was strewn with human carcasses in place of flowers. The trees were all withered and dying. And in the midst of it all, a person stood with a pen. Blood flowed from the pen, and was sprinkled all over the garden.

He looked at her. His eyes asked a question.

She replied: "You can choose what you want to cultivate in the Garden of Life. You are now choosing to cultivate & nurture misery and hopelessness. Not just choosing - you are enjoying it. You enjoy fostering your own illness, watching it grow. You had a choice. This is the option that you have exercised"

He was left speechless.

Many days passed. The disease had begun to grow on him. His facial features had become terrible to look at. More and more inhuman. His skin hung in shreds while his eyes glowered with the melancholy brightness of fever.

This was nothing compared to the anguish of his soul. He wanted it to stop. He now realised what he had spawned.

She was ready with her 3rd painting.

He saw a woman and a baby near a cliff. The baby was the cutest one would have ever seen. A microcosm of life itself. It raidated warmth & joy. One would not be able to resist holding it to one's bosom. But what was this? The woman instead of cuddling it, had thrown it over the cliff with no regard for what might happen to it.

He leaned back in his bed. He had no strength to continue.

She spoke: "Do you believe that the woman created the baby? Or was she only a medium for creation? Do you believe you are a creator? If so, you must realise that you only have the right to create. With absolute detachment. Having created, you do not have control over your creation. You must give it up, as the woman gave up the baby. You created hope and you clung on to it. You wanted your creation to pass away with you. You wanted the attachment, the involvement of seeing it wither away. You do not have the luxury of that. Having created hope, you had to let it pass on. You were not meant to bother about what happened to it."

"I shall be leaving tonight. I have completed the final painting. I have kept it, wrapped. In return for all that I have done for you, I ask one favour. You must view it only when you are writing the final chapter of your book, just before you write it."

She left that very night.

Time kept passing. He lay lost in thought, seemingly oblivious to all that was passing him by. He could not wait longer. He felt that the time had come to finish the book. His grandiose ambitions had been shattered. Nevertheless, he thought. One line will suffice to sum it all up.

Remembering the painter's injunction, he took the package which contained the final painting. His hands trembling, he undid the paper around it and held it up.

He could not believe what he saw.

He saw himself. All the unsightly blemishes on his skin had vanished. His eyes radiated a spark of energy & positivity. His cheeks glowed with a bright hue, seemingly resonating with the mellifluous chirping of the birds outside. He realised it was dawn.

Underneath the mirror was written: "Reality is perception"

His hands now calm, he entered the first words of his book:

"It began..."

Darr to think beyond the IIMs...

3 interesting links:

http://gauravsabnis.blogspot.com/2005/08/fraud-that-is-iipm.html

http://www.jammag.com/careers/n/showart.php?art_id=149

http://careers360.in/lead-story/iipm---best-only-in-claims.html

Please note the dates. Some things just continue...

Disclaimer: The content / text / opinions etc on each website mentioned above are the respective responsibilities of their owners.

The Writer & The Painter - Chapter II: The Task

At last, she met him.

She now understood why the house was the way it was. It was his spirit which embodied it. There was nothing to differentiate the house from the man, and the man from the house.

He gave her a glance of one who has long awaited something & finally sees it fructifying. He started to speak:

“I must go straight to the task for which I have called you here”

“You probably have heard of me as the greatest writer the world has seen. Yes, I have written books of great inspiration. I have provided comfort and joy to millions of people. I have delved deep into the meaning of life, its enjoyment in all forms, its purpose, goals and achievements. I have motivated. I have taught. I have received unstinted praise and admiration for all that I have done. The world has acknowledged me as a benefactor of the human race”

“But they are all wrong”

“I am a sinner. A sinner the scale of which the world has never seen before. I am a sinner worse than the most debauched, murderous & bloodthirsty tyrants seen by mankind. History has had sinners who have plundered, tortured, looted, killed & cheated people. I am a sinner because I have implanted an idea. An idea that is completely untrue.”

“I thought that life is meaningful; that there are things worth working towards, that there are objectives worth achieving; that hope is worth hoping for. I thought I was endowed with a gift – the gift of spreading hope to those who need it. I believed it to be my sacred duty in this world. The juxtaposition of words provided me with the means to do so. People have learnt to hope because of me. People have learnt to work towards making their lives meaningful because of me. I have been their saviour, their messiah. I am the one who has kindled their spirit in order that they may pass with flying colours in the examinations that life presents”

“But Providence, it seems, loves to prove a point”

“I came to know yesterday that I am suffering from a disease. It’s so rare that it has no name. Doctors are completely clueless. They say it’s incurable. They only know that it will keep consuming me. It will defile my body and corrode my spirit. It will make my countenance unbearable for anyone to see. And I will die a very painful death”

“And now you see the point. Was there ever such a fall as mine? One who was once the toast of the world, reduced to such triviality; like the entrails of a dead animal discarded by the roadside, fit only for vultures to feed on! What had I set out to achieve, and what have I been reduced to? Why was I the one chosen to lead when I was to be carried off midway?”

“I have been wrong all along. We seek so much from life. We work so much for it. We think. We feel. We do. And in the end, it all comes to nothing. It’s all gone without a trace. There is nothing that we control. There is nothing that it leads to.”

“There is nothing more inhuman then to have made people believe in an idea which is not true. For when people believe in something, it takes possession of their soul. They live for the idea and are often willing to die for it as well. They shape their reality by the ideas which constitute them. They spend their lifetimes in pursuing it. And when the idea turns out to be false, it destroys them. Nothing remains. Nothing“

“Who could be a bigger sinner than one such as me; one who has committed genocide not of bodies, but of spirits?”

“I am an idea, my friend. I am an idea whose time is over. I am idea which must be uprooted, wrenched out from the minds of everyone on the face of this earth. I must redeem myself”

“Until such time as is available to me, I shall spend on writing a book; but not just any book. It will be a book which tells the tale of despair, of the nought that all journeys must come to in the end. It will haunt and possess everyone who reads it. It will disturb the reader, snatch away his peace of mind and ensure that he does not ever dare to hope again”

“And finally, my destruction must be captured in the book. Nothing shall be left to chance or to imagination. I must be irrevocably decimated in the mind of the reader”

“You are a painter renowned for drawing the veil from the many shades of tragedy in life. Your canvas has been a chaotic splash of paints drawn from the palette of gloom and wretchedness."

"Throughout time, painters have depicted events, people, divinity, nature and abstractions. You, my friend, will depict the demise of an idea. You shall paint my last days on earth; you shall capture my ruin; the undercurrent of the unalterable uselessness of life shall adorn each one your paintings; each sibilant stroke of your brush shall be a nail in my coffin”

“Reality, is perception…”