Mr.Roy had been in the passion of building card-houses since he was ten years old.It was something that kept him busy in an otherwise world of indifferance and monotony.He excelled, way par exellance, in making card houses,and loved it a lot.Oh! It should be the other way round.He loved it and so, I think, excelled in it.
It so happened that there had come up, in the City Art Fest, a proposal for "THOSE WITH UNIQUE ART AND TALENT".Mr.Roy read it.He thought that bthe flier was specially crafted to address him.He was sure in his mind ~no one else would be presenting a card house! I think that it was the first time that he looked at his skill from a social point-of-view ~how would the society appreciate such art?He was overjoyed.
Here we must make a digressionto the flashback of Mr.Roy's paper-architecture.When he was ten, he had already turned into an iconoclast.He seemed to fit in with nothing around him.He sneered at the conspicuous show of wealth, love and vulgarity.All his peers were his peers, only because he had to have some.And anyways,he was of a rare kind;serious in studies, active in studies, and considerably good-looking.He was too smart to be left friendless in such a utilitarian world.He liked to read;but he could'nt find much worth reading.The company he had in sports made him feel out-of-place and uncomfortable.He never found anything worthwhile on TV.So, he finished his daily studies, listened to some music and sometimes, if lucky enough, could read something he would n't call 'crap'. He groped for something he knew not, tried to find his glasses without having worn any. Fortunately, before frustration, he chanced upon 'card-house' making.
Initially, the task had started disappointing him. His prismic chambers kept collapsing. It was like taming a wild horse. But then, wasn't it occupying and challenging? Wasn't he happy when he would get at least two floors right? Yes, he was. And the game kept him busy. This rather clumsy acquaintance blossomed into a steady and interactive companionship. Mr. Roy, from then, knew what to do.
Swoosh......... to the present! Mr.Roy sat looking at the Orion constellation on that black ocean overhead, in contemplation of what his decision should be. He thought his talent was unique. It went through his mind ~even if he remained modest, he could n't deny that he was spontaneous in his art. He couldn't remember repeating a house pattern that he had already drawn. Everytime a new one! Moreover, he became a freelance journalist-cum-columnist so that he could utilise time card-house making. He was convinced. He peacefully kept looking at Orion.
The next morning Mr.Roy picked up a new double pack of cards from the shop, and left for the City Fest Hall. There, unprepared and uncaring as to what he will make, he informed the co-ordinator, who happily gave him the requested space. Mr.Roy, for a moment, squinted his eyes at, what one would have perceived as nothing, but what was the virtual image of his new creation, in his mind. He set forward to the job, and created a wonderful 'Mahal' in just two hours, placing every card in geometric correctness and symmetry. The placement, he told the co-ordinator,could'nt be harmed by itself, it was so infallible.It could only be dislocated, and then surely debacled, due to external forces like breeze or pestilence,etc., etc. The co-ordinator, overawed by the Moghul Magnificance of the 'Mahal', placed a glass cube around it. Mr. Roy's name-plate was displaced in front of it.
That evening, when Mr.Roy came at the exhibition, he was in for a shock!Next to his creation was a completely unique card-house. Nothing resembling his;not even any created earlier.But it was equally beautiful and as robust an architecture as his.Mr.Roy didn't feel any sensations of 'happiness' that artists often show on seeing some 'good art'.He was enraged and in absolute respite of whoever- it- was- that -created- this -card- tower.
"Hello Sir",Mr Roy was jolted back into reality by this youngster who had wished him."I am Ashish.The tower belongs to me.And I suppose you must be Mr Roy?"
"Yes son,I am ".Mr Roy managed to reply in a muffled tone, still in a medley of conscious-subconsciousness.
" Sir,I am grateful to you.You have given me this new art .From the past four years,I have been watching you make your card-houses from my window.Such elegant designs! Such careful placements!Your art was so beautiful, so novel that I couldn't help imitating it.Slowly, I began my own designs."At this, Ashish offered his hands in a sub-servient manner, like a disciple.Mr.Roy, flustered, had now listened to every word said by Ashish, every moment rejuvenating hi angerto a virile and fiery youthfulness.
"Congrtulations, son." He croaked. Took his hand. Refused to shake it. Gave a reluctant smile. Left the place.
On the way back home, his mind violently thought of what seemed an unswirling illusion ~the punk, he has the temerity to imitate what I have cultivated since twenty years.He copied each and every move I made, I had to discover, to create this art.He thinks he can get it in four years?No sir, I say "Not this time".
In a state wherein one feels a breach of one's privacy, encroachment of one's territory, and mocking one's integrity and one's flesh and blood, he located the boy's building, waited for the boy at the entrance, and stabbed him with a screw-driver in absolute insanity. Iconoclasts don't like to share the only things they find refuge in!