Goddess appears in God’s own country

Yes, I met Frida. My dear Frida Kahlo. This time not in a dream but on a street. A vibrant street, as colourful as Frida’s works and her life. It wasn’t strange, I knew I will bump into her, she had mentioned it to me. Yes, you guys must believe me when I tell you something. She comes in my dreams. Yes, comes as in visits me, sits with me (sometime even lies down next to me), talks to me and often, even cuts a joke. Seriously, there is no need for you to doubt it. We do chat. Of her works, her poetry, her random thoughts, her bandaged body, the broken bones under her bodice and her unbreakable spirit. 

This time we were face to face. I was a bit taken aback. Normally she informs me. Like the week before, she told me she would be visiting me, physically, in my day-dream, and you bet she did. She came while we were having lunch. Came and pulled a chair next to me, almost touching my left elbow, sipped from my glass, had half of the gobhi paratha with a chunk of white butter. Wishing me Merry Christmas, she turned and left without even saying a Hi to anyone else. Before she left she stopped by the alcove and spent time admiring the Kalighat painting I recently acquired. It is a work by Kalam Patua. In the artwork a man is holding his beloved in his arms, her right leg on his left thigh. Turning around Frida gave a questioning glance. ‘When?’ She asked, raising her left eyebrow. Oh Jesus, how much I love her eyes, her lashes, her eyebrows and the tiny pearly stud she pins on her brow, God knows how!

Never mind the eyes and the stud – she is hypnotic all over. Finding her here, of all the places in the world, that late at night I was a bit scared. At times she scares me, specially when I am with someone, you see she is very possessive, (of me, of course). To see her here in Kochi, where I am on a holiday with my dear wife was a bit surprising. For the Goddess herself, to appear in God’s own country without notice was a little uneasy. 

Both of us drunk, and well-fed on beef curry, walking the dark street past the graffiti wall announcing Kochi Art Biennale. Under a lamp-post, a cigarrillo clutched in her fingers, Frida looked straight in my eyes, unblinking. Yes, thats where she stood, under a lamp-post, a sentinel tracking me. The flowers in her hair, I concluded, she must have picked up from the local woman selling toddy at the other end of the street. I am sure she also had a glass or two of toddy, the glaze still there in her eyes. The chandeliers dangling in her ears reminded me of the silver market of Jaipur where we met last. Her gaze and her silence sending shockwaves of love through the inebriated town where the ocean doesn’t let anyone sleep. Glad that I had opened my arms and that elusive smile had come back on my saline-puffed cheeks. Without another second of delay I gave her a big warm hug. ‘I need one too’, I told her. We stood there like pillars of unrequited love, fulfilled.

I don’t think she kissed me for when I looked at her face, her lips were wet but closed, maybe it was her gloss. My partner was nowhere near. Caressing her left cheek as I unlocked the hug I felt she tapped my right shoulder. A fleeting glimpse of something red felt it to be her Mexican silk stole. Looking at my moist eyes Frida was about to repeat vows of our eternal love when a red fez, the Turkish cap, came in view. A liveried young man stood there pointing his left arm to something behind me, “Madam Sir over there. Huggies and kissies, there sir, the bar closed sir.” He pleaded, “Please move, Sir. We to shut the gate, move from pillar, Sir.”

Next to me, Rajni smiled at Frida but didn’t say hello. Looking at me both of them smiled and whispered, ‘the world is watching love’. 

‘Another time, Frida.’