The Artist

By Shubham Jhunjhunwala

Backstage,

As I arrive with my trolley of cosmetics,

As I stand before the mirror,

And look at my pain staring at me,

And feel my remorse consuming me,

Front stage,

The audience starts arriving,

Snatching the empty seats,

In the thrill of their manicured enthusiasm,

In the euphoria of their fake excitement,

Asking me to entertain,

Demanding from me my broken pieces of happiness,

Only to satisfy their discrete ego,

Only to be happy at my expense.

As I put my multicolored, checkered robe,

I am starving for hope,

I am longing for intimacy,

As the satiated mongrels outside,

Are hopeful of yet another fantastic display of art,

Are intimately bracing for a marvel.

As I put on my make-up,

To pretend to be a man I always wanted to be, only to not be,

To hide the dark circles, to hide the scars,

On my face, on my soul,

For the people are waiting to sublime into the contrasting serenity,

For the people to forget their own problems.

As I put on the wig,

I think of a time when I had everything,

I think of a time when I had feelings and emotions,

Only for the people to assume I am content,

Only for the people to feel my story for a small part of the day.

As I head out,

To the stage of my showcase,

To the platform of my two-facedness,

The people are hooting and cheering,

The people are clapping in mirth,

For an artist who has nothing but them,

For an artist who has everything but nothing,

Only to serve as a slave.

While the world collapses and rises again,

While the universe collides and rejoins,

While the sun shines and the moon moves the tides,

Between now, and the end,

Between now, and my death,

I was a man, who warranted to pay this small penance,

I was a man, who was born to be,

An artist.

By Shubham Jhunjhunwala