The corner stone was white-tiled. The shape was a perfect ‘L’; of half a rectangle - length, a tad bit longer than twice the breadth. Dimensions are quite like that, queerly quaint or quaintly queer. They belie stories that would be, could be, succinctly, yet gracefully and embrace extensions, as effortlessly as they do, abrupt cuts. And then, there are the protrusions that pop up in the middle of their middles in strange shapes. The corner stone had none of that in its perfect white-tiled ‘L’.
Its imperfections manifested in arty yet artless splashes. Splashes that colored themselves a tad bit, just right. Slight beige. Slight amber. Slight jade. A mélange of sorts. And the corner stone was an unbiased canvas. It stood still in its lined pedestal watching its acknowledgements. It allowed everything. And it allowed everyone without protest - the auto rickshaw wala who smirked without reason, the university student who always looked at the sky, the adjoining theater watchman who was forever in haste, the sunglass-ed bike rider who either sang or hummed a tune, the car wala who always loosened his tie and the gay-ish steady walker who drew his breath a minute before he began.
But it did scrape off small chips of itself at night, powdering itself into heaps of inconsequentials - each time it saw the street beggar bring in his collections, each time it witnessed his meal around its pungent self, and, each time it looked on as he spread his wet blanket a few yards away to rest in the sleeplessness of the night.
Nonetheless, the corner stone stood straight, ah, that same perfect white-tiled ‘L’, slowly scraping off, by the night, those parts that some colors would manage to hide, the next day.
PS - In protest against urinating in public!
Its imperfections manifested in arty yet artless splashes. Splashes that colored themselves a tad bit, just right. Slight beige. Slight amber. Slight jade. A mélange of sorts. And the corner stone was an unbiased canvas. It stood still in its lined pedestal watching its acknowledgements. It allowed everything. And it allowed everyone without protest - the auto rickshaw wala who smirked without reason, the university student who always looked at the sky, the adjoining theater watchman who was forever in haste, the sunglass-ed bike rider who either sang or hummed a tune, the car wala who always loosened his tie and the gay-ish steady walker who drew his breath a minute before he began.
But it did scrape off small chips of itself at night, powdering itself into heaps of inconsequentials - each time it saw the street beggar bring in his collections, each time it witnessed his meal around its pungent self, and, each time it looked on as he spread his wet blanket a few yards away to rest in the sleeplessness of the night.
Nonetheless, the corner stone stood straight, ah, that same perfect white-tiled ‘L’, slowly scraping off, by the night, those parts that some colors would manage to hide, the next day.
PS - In protest against urinating in public!
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