A politician, carried away by the ensuing Municipality Election, chose a wall to paint his folded-hand profile on. Besides, there would be the birthmark of his party, a few words on the paltriness of his opposition, a what-to-do list and a bold request flashing his woos.
So, he wielded a note of order on the spot. The party pets were in league with their master and wagged their heads to carry out the order. The soon, the better. The pets fixed a time with a local wall painter. He brought out a catalogue of styles and frame. Through continuous elbow grease, he made an exotic wall street journal. The language, the political vendetta were so well written that any pedestrian would have a 3D effect on her/his flat eyes. After two hours of ceaseless work, the politician's face appeared like a butter-scotch-like ice-cream with a shiny black moustache, cleverly drawn by the artist's brother, a bootblack by profession. The pets were waiting for this moment. As soon as they saw their guru's face, they hit the air with a war cry.
The sun rose in time. The moon waxed at regular intervals. After nineteen solar days and eighteen lunar days, the poll bell rang wildly. However, political tension was building a dome of silence in the municipal area. Two days after, the moment of all desires came by the evening. The weak opposition, stunning every pet and parcel of the guru, came to be victorious by a close shave. The ecstatic news broke out while they were preparing for the next poll. Leaving everything in the lurch, they made a march by the wall, flew powder colours straight up into the air, caused a deliberate hoo-ha and ill-rhymed slogans soon seized the whole area. Some of them were awestruck, quite bamboozled by the unbelievable suddenness! It was no surprise at all, since it was a triumph that they had hardly let their brains dream of.
All actions ended. The municipal area saw no nutritional value. The ditches and garbage were redolent of the past. Any unstoppable shower could make a pool of the area. The municipal hospital was singing the swan song loudly. And...
the monolithic structure found no leisure too. All vertebrates passed by the the wall street journal and forgot to leave a glimpse for it, since forgetting was the cheapest of all recreational activities still to be carried out.
Beggars usually sat there in the afternoon, as the wall stood tall to challenge the western sunshine. They emptied their bags carefully on the tragic Kolkata floor and made a low mound of rice and potato curry. The sun of appetite shined brilliantly.
One day, two beetle leaves lovers spat directly on the politician's eyes. The wall tried in vain to close its brick eyes when they started peeing. One pee act drew many paws. The dogs always lifted either of their hind legs before the political face. The motion of their mood was - united we pee, divided we pee.
During this time, torrential rain flooded the area but failed to wash off the political colours.
Some pagan ragamuffins came to hibernate in their ill seasons. They had no colours, yet they looked foolishly at the painted buffoon and cracked their jaws in wildest laughter. Foolishness of a non-politician was the highest of all rewards to a politician.
On Sundays, the wall had to withstand a fresh sort of torment. A cricket ball hit its chest and left injuries as a reward of a sensational sportive action. Often fears overarched miseries. It became filled with fear when some of the naughtiest children turned up to demonstrate their balancing feat on its head.
After a few rounds of years the politician came to the spot to dab the wall once more for impregnating his vote traffic. Even a blockhead could understand, it was a new season of enjoying the polling festival. The politician had a tail of followers, however, it was on the decreasing side and new faces had been in the focus.
The wall was annoyed and angry, but it had not the mortal power to force back the brutes. He saw the scotch-eyed garrulous pets. One of his pets asked the politician who the bastard was on the wall. The politician pretended that he couldn't recognize the face. Slowly and silently he took no pains to recollect the loss. One among the raucous party emerged to kick the picture in the folded hands and drilled the air, “Here stands our Boss, our Dada – who the swine are you?”
The politician, pitted with sheer shame, found it better to move away and choose another wall. He also engaged a new painting whiz to coat the wall with white colours.
The wall, at last, with the advent of a new electoral carnival, enjoyed a freedom of all times.