How was your day? A simple compulsory question of any nosy individual which is answered vaguely by 100% of us but it got Swami’s goat. He didn't answer it rather he shoulted back, 'how the f*** do you want it to be?' Question for question was not his style but his artistic mind had been quite restless that day. Everything in the room came to a stand still - the warm stale air stop moving, Raghu stopped chomping on his second burger, Radhika gaped and I apparently was smiling at the time the question was asked so it was natural for me to grin more. I found it unusual, not the outburst or the choice of words but the answer which apparently was a rhetoric - I could have an entire book on this choice phrase.
This incident happened in a meeting of an artistic club. This club, 'royal artists' has been in existence for six months now with seven uncommitted members or should I call wannabe artists- they ranged for rockers to painters to poets to bloggers (thats me). And the founder, president, owner of the basement which housed the club was Swami.
Swami considered himself a struggling artist and lived and behaved live one though he had a rich father who he mailed a cheque every month as rent for the use of basement. The trade he plied was poetry. He wrote lofty poems in english which other members of the club always waited patiently for weeks and then praised them profusely not because they were Swami's but because they touched them deep inside. He has written poems on his favourite shoe, the watchmen, and the stray cat that has made the basemen her part home and also one on the man on mars. The man was a genius in his intellectual capacity.
Let me come back to why he reacted that way. Swami was upset because someone semi-seriously told him that they couldn't get the poem - they couldn't get the poem that he had sweated on for months. The poem in contention is published in my previous post. Happy Reading.