MADNESS GALLERY

Madness Gallery



“LOOK! He was different. Strangely different. Hopelessly incurable.” I was doing a project work upon the mad. To be more precise –‘officially recognized/declared mad.’ After seeing many mad in that mental hospital now I was among the photographed mad. The curator of the gallery was introducing me to those mad who died during the treatment, or , so to say , died before being unmad. And now their sole physical remains were ‘preserved’ within those officially stamped frames. Put there for scientific case studies. Suddenly his voice changed when he came near that particular photograph. Probably some mystery excited him. And it made me curious. Wasn’t that photograph rally different? I can never forget that. Not until I forget myself. Though framed within, his eyes were looking towards some unknown space. I felt that photo struggling against its frame. Just trying to get beyond that restricted space to the place of his dreams. His eyes looking at some distant world.
“he puzzled many generations. Many fresh batches of medical students banged their heads against his mysteriously fortified madness. He was a unique case. Nothing as his type.” He sounded a bit sorry. Reason demanded some guesswork- may be it was his failure to regain his sanity or the failure of the medical science to solve that mystery etc. I was more interested now.
“a strange illness. It was a madness of strange visions.”
“Visions?”
“Yes … you can say ‘dreams’. But these were when he was waking up. Eyes open but lost. You can see that in this picture also.” And the problem was that he never believed them to be dreams or unreasonable visions. He believed in them. He believed them to be real. And he always talked about them. Even mad needed to be protected against his words. You see how mad. And what mad.” Poor curator had simply over-excited himself. One glass of water helped him in getting normal. And I looked again at those dreamy eyes which had some vision more covetous than the world existing and around.
“he had an elder brother.” His composed voice broke my meditative dream.
“He shared none of his madness. His father was also very practical and wise. You see, it was not in blood.” He stopped for some moments. A slowly growing smile on his face. His bright eyes said that he had recollected something interesting.
“you know one day somebody asked them something about Tajmahal. Probably it was about the possible use of Taj (other than a monument). The elder brother came with the plan of making a luxurious hotel with world class facilities. It was according to him a brilliant idea to make India a favourite tourist place. He also gave the example many such things in Rajasthan and other states . Now comes the fun. When the younger was asked, he replied with confusion. He was trying to choose one from two very good ideas- whether to keep the structure intact and declare it a rest house for the poor , orto sell all the marble from the structure , clear the whole space and male a big colony for the poor. And then he started talking about the plight of thousands of home-less people and started ranting against market, economic policies and the growing disparity. Once he was trying to argue in support of petty criminals and even showed them to be circumstantially criminal and not criminal by nature. His unhealthy thinking was not recognized on time and you can see the result.” A contempt was clear n his voice.
“There were many such things. Always mad. Often he used to divide his meal into several parts and offer them to unknown and unheard names. Yes he talked with spirits. Strange names and he lamented their lives corroded by poverty and hunger. And always tried to reconcile them with the hope of the promised day. The day of equality and the day of humanity. He called us mad and blind and brute and god knows what else as we laughed upon his madness.” He was chuckling. i heard the triumphant laughter of rational and pragmatic science. I felt choking. Suppressing something deep inside. I closed my eyes. I felt myself nailed inside a frame, hanging from some wall, detailed for some other project enquiry.
“Come sir, let me show you another…” he kept on giving me details of those framed photographs. He also made some remarks on the artistry of the photographer. Each photo had some story. And in a technical terms, a case history. The curator’s gait and tone was much like the ringmaster in a circus, threatening the caged wildness with a hunter and talking with the audience.
I was thinking, “should I tell him?”
Wisdom prevailed and I remained silent.
Gallery was really big. And cases were many.