Back Crowfall
Chapters (48)
  1. Cover
  2. SHANTA GOKHALE
  3. Praise for the Marathi original, Tya Varshi
  4. Dedication
  5. 1
  6. 2
  7. 3
  8. 4
  9. 5
  10. 6
  11. 7
  12. 8Horn OK Thank You!
  13. 9
  14. 10
  15. 11
  16. 12
  17. 13
  18. 14
  19. 15
  20. 16
  21. 17
  22. 18F for FakeJanaki Patil
  23. 19
  24. 20
  25. 21
  26. 22
  27. 23
  28. 24
  29. 25Painting Walls
  30. 26
  31. 27
  32. 28
  33. 29
  34. 30
  35. 31
  36. 32
  37. 33
  38. 34
  39. 35
  40. 36
  41. 37
  42. 38
  43. 39
  44. 40
  45. 41
  46. 42
  47. Footnotes
  48. THE BEGINNING

‘Mani Bhavan? You mean where that charlatan Gandhi lived? Ruined the country and became a saint. Stuffed fifty-three crore rupees into those landyas’ throats. Now they are claiming rights over Kashmir.’

Grandpa's wrinkled, fair-skinned face has gone red. Ashesh looks at him stunned. The old man asks him grouchily, ‘What is your occupation?’ His voice is full of reproach. Who can tell what a man who lives near Mani Bhavan could be doing? Trying hard to keep his voice light, Ashesh says, ‘I paint.’

‘That's okay. But what work do you do?’

Ashesh thinks of Haridas again. People think painting or writing poetry is a hobby. Spending eight hours in an office and three in local trains is work. The activity you engage in to qualify for the cheque that comes to you at the end of the month is work. What a contractor does is also work, though others do the work. We rip our arses working on a single painting. They take a month just to push a file from one desk to the next. But theirs is work, ours just a hobby. So why even talk to them about our work? When Haridas is asked what he does, he says very seriously, ‘I kill flies’ or ‘I’m a coolie at Mumbai Central.’ If he's totally pissed off with the prying, he might even say, ‘I pimp in temples’ or ‘I supply young girls to old politicians.’

Ashesh hasn’t answered, so the old man makes himself clearer. ‘What I meant was, what do you do for a living?’

‘I paint pictures.’

‘Pictures?’

‘Yes.’

‘Who prints them?’

Ashesh's lower lip drops helplessly. He looks around to see if an answer will appear from somewhere. He catches sight of a bus heading their way. He doesn’t care where it is going. He wants to get on to it and leave Grandpa far behind. But ‘There's my bus,’ says Grandpa, turning Ashesh giddy with joy. He gives the old man an eager hand into the bus, steadies him as he totters on the footboard and even yells at the conductor, ‘Can’t you wait?’ when he notices his impatient hand reaching for the bell. The bus lurches forward and is off. Ashesh takes a deep breath and smiles.