Diary of a Mop Painter

March 28th

Hello diary, isn’t that how you begin these things? I seen my daughter begin her diary entries with this. I don’t really get why she wrote anything in her diary. I know she smokes cigarettes now and that she has a crush on the postman living in our chawl. I think she wanted to confess to me that’s why she wrote it down in a book that she kept locked in her cupboard… so that I could read it.

Now, Diary, is it alright if I call you that? I don’t want you to think I’m illiterate or judge me in anyway but I am a janitor in a public school nearby.

But I am not illiterate or anything. I am rebel. I might not look like the type but I am quite I fiery person. Even in bed. My wife can’t handle the heated vibes I give off that’s why she makes me sleep on the floor… Anyway, moving on. As I was saying I am a rebel. I left my home to pursue my dream. Mop painting.

You may laugh just like the others did but I am a real artist. I am offended by your laughter. I will give you the same treatment I give my wife. 2 minutes of silence.

2 minutes later

I guess it is true what they say. Writing a diary helps you find your real self. But my friend said the same thing about sleeping with a prostitute. You know what, I think my wife doesn’t love me anymore.

In any case I would like it if you don’t tell my wife about us. She already thinks I have a thing going on with the new washing machine.

March 29th

Okay I’m back. I’m going to tell you something about Mop painting. It’s something I discovered while mopping my house as a child. I found I could create wonderful patterns with the mop and that pleased me to no end. I pursued it as a hobby for a long time. My mother was the happiest of all because I reduced her workload. One afternoon, during the summer vacations my mother was taking a nap.

Here’s what I did. I took out all the bottles of paint I had and painted a mural on the floor with my mop. I was going for the Mona Lisa but I managed a monkey. The resemblance was uncanny. My mother was not impressed, but then she was never one for the arts. She was pretty critical about my work. She slapped me and hit me with the broom. (She knows I hate brooms, you can’t paint well with brooms.)

I like constructive criticism but pouring Lizol over a painting just because you don’t like it is a bit extreme don’t you think? I think it is intolerance. I see you still can’t hold your laughter over my choice of profession. I’ll be gone now.

March 30th

Hello diary. I don’t have much time today. It’ll just be a quick in and out. Bringing up my past has made realize how long it has been since I’ve made a real mop painting. I’ve just been playing around with foam and water and trying out different stuff.

Today I decided to do a Vincent Van Gogh painting of the ‘Starry Night’ on the school corridor floor. I stole paint bottles from the children’s bag and hid them in my baggy pockets. I spend the better part of the hour trying to get the painting ready and though I didn’t the real picture I came close to making a rainbow.

As with all great artists in this sad life, the principal walked passed and noticed my work. He didn’t slap me like my mother but his criticism was no life changer either. He scolded me for drawing Homosexual symbols on the school premises.

His yelling brought people clamoring to see my painting. It ended with him kicking me out. While I left the PE teacher looked at me funny. I don’t know why.

When I came home my wife wasn’t pleased either. She wanted me to have a good track record here so I could get a janitor’s job at a good private school. The pay is much better there. Since I know English It gives me an edge over the competition. 

Now after being fired from here I lose my advantage in future janitor interviews.

There’s no limit to my wife’s anger here. I could barely make sometime to talk to you today.  I know who to blame this all on. Honey Singh. I don’t have time to explain. I’ll be back tomorrow.

March 31st

Yesterday was the first time I slept on the cot. On the other hand. My wife ran away with the postman. I wish she would have written a diary so I would have known her intentions. Now my daughter blames me for the postman being gone.

The PE teacher called up to ask how I was doing. He asked if he could visit. I told him there’s no food to offer him as my wife is not at home. He seemed quite happy about it.

Anyway I told him I’m at a really low point and I don’t want to see anyone, except an art gallery owner.

I think it’s time I tell you about my arch nemesis. And not it’s not Lizol. It’s Honey Singh.

Those two piece ‘artists’ are ruining things for us real artists. I tried going on one of the reality shows to showcase my art. Turns out you get only one minute to perform there. How can you do that? What should I paint in a minute? I painted boobs, it just has 2 sweeping strokes and 2 drops to top it off. I got kicked out of there too.

Honey Singh performed there sometime later and sang about boobs and nobody kicked him out. If there’s anything I hate it is injustice. 

I hate it even more than those apparently ‘real’ painters’ who use tiny brushes and paint with one hand, but that’s another story.

Today my daughter came in with tickets for a Honey Singh concert. I’d rather have her run away with the postman than pay money to that phoney artist. So I tried snatching the ticket from her but since I mop the house floor so much I slipped and rammed my head against the wall without getting a hold of the ticket.

I wish I could just speak to someone about this. You know someone who could be my 2 a.m. person. My wife was that person till she became a 4 a.m person and that’s my sleeping time. Relationships can be hard to maintain.

Anyway I plan on going with my daughter for the concert and throw a shoe at Honey Singh tomorrow. Wish me luck.

April 1st

This was supposed to be the day I step into the limelight and come out as the real artist but I feel defeated. Is it because India lost to New Zealand 2 days ago? Is it because I lost my train ticket and had to pay a fine? I can’t understand. That’s why I have come to you, Diary, to sort it out.

I threw a shoe a Honey Singh. It took a lot of effort. I bought the ticket in black, made my way till just behind the VIP and the VVIP and the reserved section. I picked up my shoe and flung it at him. That wily young man with his quick reflexes tried dancing to dodge the shoe but it struck him on his foot. I can only imagine how much inconceivable pain it must have caused him.

Anyway, after that I was given the VIP treatment. I was escorted out of the venue by 4 bodyguards who had me lifted up so that my bare feet don’t touch the muddy ground. They left nail marks on my arm and elbowed me in the face, but I appreciate the touching gesture.

I limped on my way home and had many people stamp my foot in the train. It’s sore now and dirty and my daughter hasn’t returned home today.

There’s still this feeling of being defeated. I think it’s because for the first time I lost to my wife in this little game we played, ‘Who wakes up first’. She was up and out before I knew it. Now that I think of it, maybe that was the plan.

April 2nd

Dear Diary, Honey Singh is on the front page of the newspaper and my daughter has his autograph and is now an aspiring rapper. She’s rapping about boobs too. I am done with this world.

Somebody recorded my shoe throwing antics and has it on a video which is going viral. I guess I feel like a valid member of the human race now having made some real contribution to the world. Isn’t that art as well? Because it will last in this world longer than I will. Isn’t that what art has become now? It should just be something you do that outlasts your human life. Does that make Honey Singh an artist then? no. No way.

God I’m so messed up. I guess there are are somethings you never can quite figure out. Anyway I must take your leave now.

Goodbye diary. We can’t meet anymore. No, I am not leaving you for the washing machine. That relationship was just going in circles.

I think I should call it off because we are poisonous for each other. Like Romeo and Juliet, we will be the death of each other. But you know what, it was good while the ink in my pen lasted.

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