Tragic evening
Master and disciple were trapped inside master’s small cottage. Cats
and dogs were pouring down outside; they couldn’t go out! ‘I don’t think
this would stop for another hour or two.’ Master predicted. ‘You want us
to go out taking umbrellas?’ It was the most unwelcome idea of the hour,
but disciple shuddered at the thought. “I wish to be here, master,’ he
said. The gloomy overcast has caused dumps in him. And all he wanted was
to lie cosily by the fireplace.
 They
both felt even lazy to get lost in a conversation. Disciple yawned. A
sudden lethargy was creeping and dominating master too. But he did not
succumb.
‘I remember you asking me why young artists die so young.’ ‘Oh yes!
But it was a mere casual question.’ Indifference! ‘Still something for a
discussion in a rainy evening!’ The rain rhymed outside to a quaint
rhythm. It had lulled disciple’s heart for some time. He was too lazy to
reply master.
‘Shall I bring you a pillow, son?” Master inquired with a sneaky
grin.
Disciple jumped himself up, ‘Pardon me Master. I was distracted by
the rain.’ ‘I know, I know’ Master calmed down the terrified youth. ‘But
time for us is strictly limited, isn’t it? If you have no objection, I
can tell you how I met Anton Chekhov in such a rainy day.” “Please do,
master!’ Disciple said apologetically, but cheered up in an instant.
Master rubbed his hands together and listened to the rain speak on
its way to the ground. ‘Right,’ He started. ‘I think you are familiar
with nature’s language now. So to start…’ He paused and stretched
himself. ‘It was yet another day as today; the rain was clamouring. My
master then took me to Anton Chekhov.’ ‘Chekhov! Wow!’ Disciple
exclaimed. ‘So he was alive then?’ ‘Yes, but terribly sick and weak; he
was suffering from TB. So, he was slightly depressed. But we dragged on
fairly well’ Master stopped. ‘Have you heard of poetry of modern
theatre?’ ‘Like Shakespeare’s?’ ‘Yes, but less rhetoric, and was
realistic’ ‘Isn’t it hard to be poetic and realistic at the same time?’
‘Of course, that’s where you can make use of suggestivity. To interpret
things your way.’ ‘I know him to be inspired by associating different
levels of people. I’ve read his “The Cherry Orchard”.
Is it a comedy or tragedy, master?’ ‘Categorizing doesn’t apply
everywhere! There’s ambivalence too.’ Master explained. Sometimes you
can’t simply translate emotions into words. It’s as hard as categorizing
human emotions.” Disciple understood it his own way: when you make an
entity out half-parts, no use in judging what weighs more in those
half-parts. Every scrap matters in the end… Better leave undecided!
Master observed him wrapped in thoughts, and was pleased. Disciple
raised his head. ‘We hadn’t much talked with him because he could hardly
speak.’ Master traced the years. ‘He said, ‘We got our tales from our
father and our soul from our mother’. Think of that….’ ‘How beautiful,’
disciple pondered.
Master did not disturb the insightful young man. He wanted to tell
Chekhov’s world was not entirely materialistic as he assumes. But
instead he also got himself lost in Chekhov’s heartrending “Lady with a
Lap dog”. His soul gladdened as he remembered how the main characters
loved each other so deeply within.
‘I understand.’ Disciple muttered quietly to himself. Then he stood
up and went to the window. The rain was still pouring itself down.
Suddenly, a breeze from a distant yesterday swept across his face.
Gazing out of the window, disciple saw some lovely flowers bent by
the weight of raindrops. He wished the rain would not disturb them too
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