Dark colored Burnt Sienna blocks were piled one on another, formed forbidden wall, on a hot day inviting a cool breeze in Crimson and Blue spilled sky.

When we turned around we could see a Gallery, a structure in White surrounded by Green. The pebbled path took us inside this White structure which was well lit and had no one to address.

We went inside the Art Gallery and to our surprise we saw a lady with a man walking slowly together hand in hand across the gallery. I was looking carefully at the displayed works by master Artists like A. Ramachandran and turned around to see my sister. She looked delighted to be part of the evening as was I.

I looked at the lady and her movements suggested me that she was an Artist herself and she is not a participant in the current ongoing exhibition at this Gallery. She looked towards me at the man’s absence and I turned incidentally away from her when she smiled. To my right, stands this woman who is obliged to talk and share a thing or two and to the left my sister who is more interested in observing me. She smiled and was anticipating reply and to communicate. I came to notice this, when she said “hi”. I apologized with “sorry” and started the conversation where after a while I observed the shift passed unto my sister. She was telling that she studied in London and practicing in Germany. I shook my head, smiled and left.

I heard a sound above the stairs. Diwali ambiance, children were screaming, playing and Dancing where as many women gossipers sitting together dressed up in one of the room.

The room to the left of the stairs was occupied with flashy metal objects hanging in mid air with a few amazed visitors glued to it, another exhibition! This was more interesting as the objects were moving with the light.

Nityananda popped up. The huge fat guy, I met in Chennai at one of the ugly hotel where I used to eat every day. A humble, gentle giant from Mysore conveyed with utmost excitement that the displayed objects are part of his exhibition. I was already delighted and with this, I was more thrilled to be present there.

Nityananda seemed to be excited and blessed to exhibit his works. This exhibition could taste the success, thought the visitors and they were so happy to present themselves at the gallery.

Most of the visitors were awaiting my arrival, accepted and greeted very well. I could not hold myself at this evening to respond to the evening and the lights. The colors spiced up the festive atmosphere. Women and kids were so happy getting together and sharing their experiences.

The whole gallery turned into a hall staging performance. The sound and movement of music made people dance within themselves.

The green long skirt slithered everywhere.  Gravity of the earth had disappeared. I was manifested into a Sufi with a long skirt/ Ghagra with a flaring outfit. I was accompanied by invisible Gopikas dancing with me. I felt a Peacock. People who experienced this were ecstatic and mesmerized by the movement of the bluish green peacock outfit.

The whole space was filled with invisible Dancers and an accomplishment of reaching to the divine   was overwhelmed at the descending notes of the music.

The whole evening was remembered in colors and lights. Green, Blue, glowing Gold, bits of Scarlet Red, Magenta, Brown and sparkling electric Blue with Violet tint weaved a web on my cortex.

The beauty and divinity of Krishna and Gopikas, the sanity of being a Sufi was truly overwhelming and its memories remained sublime.

I suddenly recollected my school syllabus, wondering if the museum etiquettes are thought in the classrooms.

The obvious answer is no. teachers are not aware of the museum culture and its practises. This attitude is really bizarre in a country which has rich cultural history and heritage. Teachers are always baffled in a weird combination of mathematics and chemistry; the number of marks scored is proportionate to total percentage of their subject with reaction of this into their incentives.

Art, museums, Galleries; who cares? People have very minimal interest about something that they have to protect and foster, to pass it onto the next generation. The so called informed people with technology visit galleries and museums once in blue moon with set of scales in hand. You name it they know everything from the great Picasso to their own relative who pat clay once in a month.

I spent a few days in an exhibition of sculptures shown at the government art gallery as in charge. The display of sculptures more or less manifested into an archaeological museum arrangement.  People who visited the very famous Vidhana Soudha; less known than the great posh hi end Mahatma Gandhi Road also walked across this gallery with another technological museum standing next to it.  This visit is not driven by their interest but vital part of their paisa vasool scheme. The ever energetic bombarding kids with negligent parents who enact kings of the past who were honoured when they visited such places like in old movies were the majority of audience. 

My job in the gallery is to take good care of sculptures and ensure safety to its condition. To guarantee this I have to restrict the visitors from taking photographs and touching them. People who got my words “please don’t touch the sculptures”, “please don’t take photographs” showed grim faces at the exit door. Later these words lost its smile and vanished in the rest room as I washed my face at regular interval.

I went back with the usual two sentences to puke at the visitors. I saw a small boy rushing into the gallery running like a rage bull with his obese dad followed with his short, dark and tired mother. Like any other visitor who enters the gallery with kids, I poured the same things into their ears. “Yes of course I won’t let him do that” he replied. This must be a first of its kind, an educated family I thought after the father pulled his son’s arm and lift him above his waist to the shoulders. I was worried that arrangement of sculptures could be brought down by that giggle of the boy.

The boy and his father finally stood near the big main arrangement. Father to impress his little son, rolled his fingers across the portraits of Gangubai Hangal and Bhimsen Joshi ……………….

I became extremely furious to have seen something like that. I shouted at the father “can’t you understand? At least the small boy has little brains but you are too ridiculous to allow inside this premises. He was silent and left the gallery……………..

                                                               

                                                                                                II

There are different types of people who visit the shows. Extremely Shy women in their 40s do not attend the art exhibitions often at least with their families unless they are close to the artists. These aunts are suppressed, pathetic creatures dominated by their husband and family including kids. Women of this genre believe nothing is important but TV, Husband and kids. These women spice up their lives within daily soaps with immediate representation of the local personal history. Embarrassment is the biggest sin of their entire life for some of these conservative people. These typical ones are a little different from the father and son.

A woman came with her confused family and walked vigorously all across the pedestals of the sculptures with no clue. Accidently went too close to Mansoor’s portrait which eventually made hard sound as it plunged down the floor. I ran from the last corner to get the model back to its ground. The woman was so embarrassed and she started smiling as if a joke is waiting to be acknowledged. I picked up the sculpture and looked into it carefully to observe any possible damage. Within seconds the whole family disappeared even before I found the sculpture was in one single piece, I was relived.

                                                                                        III

Peculiar behaviour of people, particularly in boys is that they want to capture everything on camera; be it a dog sleeping in a corner or a policemen sipping a pot of tea!!

These types are a real threat to the exhibition display because these sheep can lead up to any extent just to impress their stupid yet careless girl friends!!  It is a real shame that certain place like museums and galleries are used for such practises.

They call it ‘MASS’ the eyes and hands along with their brains of MASS is not programmed for honest interest for culture and history. Going back to my school days, I wish these etiquettes were thought in our classrooms.

Without my luggage, I was travelling along with a few unknown people. It was an evening with warm wind, blowing yellow ochre sand dust in the air.

On my left plane I could still see my country, green grass blown left and right by soft breeze going away from me. I realised that I am getting into a new territory of dry grass and dust rose from the sands.

We were watching the check post from a distance, sitting inside a typical Mexican/ American rather Indian ambassador car, driving towards the new country.

The gate opened at the entrance while regret of leaving my home country started to haunt me in front of my vision, going away from me.

Men who wore a huge Mexican hat and cowboy outfit were waiting to attend us. I suppose they are cops. Cops sarcastic smile casted spell on remains of my confidence. A male voice next to me instructed me to be aware of these boundary riders.

I was the first target of these cops who giggled at my skin. A cop who wore a green jacket asked me to come forward to show my identity proof. I felt the warmth of the green jeans jacket in the dusk and suddenly felt that the cop could be feeling the piercing sun under his jacket. Even though I have necessary identity proof, I was scared enough to believe it myself. I was afraid that my driver’s license could be verified and I will be caught.

For certain time you can stay here till we verify your documents said the cop again with a sarcastic smile. His fellow cops started to follow him to make me more nervous. He turned to his left to reach a wooden piece which actually was a designed sculpture. I thought the piece is replica of Christ but with stiff stance. He gave the doll to me saying that it could save me, other cops started laughing.

 I was wondering about the wooden piece and turned its head gently with a click sound. The moment I turned I was manifested into a giant male looked similar to mosses of Michael Angelo. My fellow traveller was nude and carrying a bride in his arms, walked away from me into a green landscape. I was walking toward a red sharp edged car in the dark night……….

                                                                                                II

I entered a busy market but not crowded enough to entertain large number of customers. This market had lot of corners and small streets or passage to create enormous directions to get lost.

I bent down to get out of the hung silky green curtain reminded me of any sub-continent. By the time I started to look around, the male voice is replaced with a dark, strong, short male who was very much to himself. He accompanied me for quite some time later.

I turned next to the big brown table on my right hand side. I saw a coffee shop and its display board which reads “coffee beku”. The logo of this shop was very similar to cotha’s coffee powder. The green and red struck me to stop for a bit to know more about this place. The guy who makes coffee said something in kannada. I was amazed to have heard kannada in a foreign land. We both enjoyed the moment in awe and moved on to another street.

People were selling provisions and I could recognise them. These vendors were busy and talking over the mobile phone in telugu. The smell of oil and dry coconut brought me back to shetty angadi for a while.

I asked “ are there colonies here of migrants?” an old man rubbing his hand came out of  his house and said yes with a cordial smile.  I was not concerned about my disappeared co traveller.

I started to figure out the directions from closed white distempered walls of an old Indian house of pillars and red floor. I met another old man, lying and chewing his pan in the verandah said “you have to rest”; affirmation followed from inside one of the rooms by an old married lady. Even before I asked him the old man said “do you see the white building next to another building? “Without waiting for my reply he continued “you have to climb that white wall with small windows to the roof and join the guys who are resting there”. The roof which he mentioned was made of iron sheets cut into long strips weaved together and left unfinished toward the posterior end.

I neither answered the old man nor thanked him.

I was carefully holding the iron strips to hang on to powdered distemper wall. I looked into the groove to see a few young men like the one who travelled with me earlier was lying down and enjoying the music.

I didn’t wish to disturb them but I was hanging on one foot to hold the iron strip at my fingertips.     

                                                                                                III

Quite a busy evening, earth getting warmer by the evening with sun had exhausted from his heat. I was waiting for the carton box to be passed from my fellow worker so that I can arrange and keep them tidy in the place next to me.