Suleiman and Salman

The gully that led into the inner quarters of his ramshackle home was coming awake. Suleiman cycled through the waste of humanity, throwing a polite smile to anyone who bothered. As he dismounted, he could not help noticing the torn holes in the thin yellow plastic sheet, which offered the only cover to his dignity and self-respect. With a wry smile tingeing his thin aging face, he entered the house.

Suleiman had many colours in his life. The pink and orange hues of a setting sun, quivering greens and blues of a dancing peacock, and the blushing red of a newly wedded bride. But the two colours that never left his sight were black and white. With the passage of time the black seemed to have been beaten down by the white, which now painstakingly stood out. On his hands, feet, cheeks and even the hair on his body.

Although Suleiman had never seen any of his films, he was well aware of his popularity, particularly with women. The face floated around him and he could feel it come alive. The pointed eyes were playful yet sharp, and needed a hint of softening. The hip-hugging jeans, hanging seductively to the naked upper half of the body, had to be contoured for further attention. The scantily clad voluptuous belle, who clung on to his frame, had to have her bosom delineated. The colours had to be right. But Suleiman had rarely ever gone wrong in that.

For the past twenty-six years Suleiman had been creating images of love, anger, happiness, sorrow, hatred, violence and passion. Through the film posters he painted, he created a secret window for many to peep in.

Faisal was training under him since the last three months and his lack of respect for the vocation angered Suleiman greatly. Aware that the sixteen year old looked at the art just as a means of survival, he felt sad. Lack of work had made living difficult, but he had hoped to keep himself alive through Faisal’s young probing hands.

But the rascal was more interested in apeing the film stars rather than painting them.

Salman Khan, the heart throb of the new generation, was Faisal’s present favourite. While Suleiman loved them all. He sipped at the half-cold tea from the chipped blue saucer, admiring his handiwork. There was a brief knock at the door and Faisal entered. His unkempt appearance as always put Suleiman off.

“Scoundrel, why do you come to my house looking like a piece of rotten meat!”

Faisal’s gesture of a half-yawn and a half-smile set Suleiman’s heart on fire.

“Will you now keep standing there like a nitwit or move your good for nothing backside?”

A red spot seemed to appear for a moment in Faisal’s eyes, but he lazily strolled over to where the tins of colours stood, busying himself with no particular task.
Suleiman was studying Salman’s hands, wondering whether to touch them up a wee bit more. His intense reverie was interrupted by a loud sound. In shock he saw various colours - brown, black, red… converging into an ugly pool on an already messy floor.

In a blind rush Suleiman moved towards the boy and slapped him hard on the face. Faisal lay on the floor, atop the spilled paint. Then he sprang up and, before Suleiman could even blink his tired old eyes, picked up the blue chipped saucer with the cold tea in it and with a singular movement splattered it across the face of his favourite movie star - Salman Khan.