Hassan The Painter

Hassan ensconced himself snuggly in a comfortable chair on his porch, wrapping a light woolen blanket around him. For someone who has never been to Kodaikanal the vastness and awe of the view in front of Hassan would be hard to comprehend.
This was the chosen Hill Station in the South of India for young honey-mooning couples, and travelers.
The view comprised of lush green trees, the fairy-tale kind that can only exist in altitudes of over 1,800 meters.
The air was misty, which gave a dreamy quality to the panoramic scenery. The hills and valleys descended and ascended around each-other as if part of some heavenly play.

This was where he wanted to be. This was his chosen place; after all, he was an aspiring painter.

Another reason for the immense inspiration he was experiencing at the time, apart from the view of course, was the architectonic joint dangling between the index and middle fingers of his left hand.
Surely a painter in India would not refuse the exuberant boost Manali charas offers to one's creativity.

So thus, absorbed in his art making, pausing occasionally to reflect on what he's done so far and take sagely long puffs from his perfect cone-shaped joint, he did not hear the footsteps. Didn't notice the coming of another presence into his tiny universe.

This unwanted guest made his way up the stairs and placed himself between Hassan and the object of his painting.

This was a cop. A police officer. The kind that's robust and extremely muscular. The kind that doesn't mess around, doesn't stand the breaking of laws, and with a personal zeal and fervor, makes sure they are obeyed, and if not, that the perpetrators are punished.

It took hassan a few moments to notice this door of a man, with his sumptuous mustaches, curving almost as much as the hills and the valleys.

"Oh shit!" - He couldn't help from blurting it out.
"What are you doing?" Admonished the officer in a harsh voice.

There was an unpleasant pause there. A lull in which four eyes locked in on each other and wouldn't let go.

Hassan's gaze was one of compassion, of naiveness.
The officer's gaze was one of 'take no nonsense'.

"SMOKING DRUGS NOT ALLOWED!" The officer broke the silence.

Another lull. Another uncomfortable pause.

"I'm a painter!" Spoke hassan suddenly with new found fervor, while turning the canvas around for the officer to see.

The officer stood there with a perplexed expression on his face. His eyes moving between Hassan's eyes, and the canvas, turning around once to admire the view, as if the view could reaffirm Hassan's story.

Another uncomfortable silence. Hassan on the edge of of his seat, not so much ensconced now, the light woolen blanket half on his right knee and half on the ground - fell down after Hassan was startled by this unwanted guest.

Slowly it was coming. There it was, a light quiver in the right mustache, the left one joining in, and there, in it's full glory, a smile! A genuine smile!

"Oooooooooh!" Said the officer.
"Painter!" Pointing at Hassan.

"Yes yes!" Hassan replying gingerly, pointing at himself.
"Painter! Painter!" Continued Hassan, reassuring the officer.

The officer's smile waning a bit, his eyes moving to the joint, then to Hassan's face, and then the officer's face lighting again.
"Painter!" Said the officer with his eyes and big index finger moving between the joint and the canvas.

"Yes yes!" Hassan was on top of himself now. "Inspiration!!" Mustering all the seriousness he could muster.

"Aaaaaaaaaaaaah!" The officer furiously nodding.
"Inspiration!" Still furiously nodding.

And then, with a wink that made his left moustache rise a bit, the officer left.

*Based on a true story