Whatever you are about to read has actually happened. I was trying to drown bad memories with cheap whisky in an evening about seven days after losing someone very dear. It was my third drink and still the acrid stench of the postmortem swept my nostrils when I took deep breath. Preoccupation with questioning the purpose of life made me oblivious to his presence,for he was already there, a strange form, human like but ear less and body less,looking askance yet perched comfortably on a small plastic bottle cap. When or how he sprung there I don't know. I was not startled,neither scared and his expression reaffirmed my disappointment with life.
This happened in the year 2005. Things are different now. There is love and laughter in life and also new beginnings. His attitude remains the same though, with lips that have never parted to say anything and an expression of continuous cynical riposte to all that could bring joy. My attempts for a conversation has always ended in frustrating monologues. So for want of a better word I call him Tombu.
These paintings are stories of my interaction with Tombu over various matters. The Dancer is the one who has kept me sane with his cheerful demeanor in these intense moments. To him I owe a lot.