Hungry Hearts

Read a short story by one Franz Kafka a few minutes back (read quite a few, actually, but I'm afraid some of his more urbane nuances tend to get a bit lost in translation). And just when I was about to give up ol' Franny as One-of-Those-Guys-I-Ain't-Gonna-Understand, along comes this one story that literally blows me away.

The story in question was called A Hunger Artist. It was the third or fourth story I flipped to, on account of Indrajit Hazra making a passing reference to it in his column way back when our babe Ramdev was fasting and everyone had an opinion on him, one way or the other. The reference was fleeting and ironical; the story was laden with irony too, only it was as fleeting as a freight train to the back of one's head.

Anyway, lengthy intro paras aside: the story is about a professional hunger artist, a man who ekes out his existence by living in an iron cage and not eating anything for stretches lasting forty days on end (not because of any limits to his endurance-the public simply loses interest after that).

The hunger artist fasts because of some nagging dissatisfaction he has with his life; he wants to fast for longer and longer periods but is hindered by a lack of commercial viability. Eventually, however, the public loses interest; and the hunger artist loses his impresario and his ragtag entourage of suspicious souls. He ends up as a circus sideshow; and finally released by the constant scrutiny and unhealthy interest of his spectators, he manages to fast out to his heart's content (or to the end of his life, although the two are implied to be one and the same).

Finally, as the circus overseer looks to clear out his straw-studded deathbed to make space for a panther, the hunger artist finally reveals the reason why he fasts:

It turns out he never really got the food he wanted.

These turn out to be his last words.

And after an unceremonious burial and a quick once-over, the cage is refilled and life goes on.

There can, of course, be multiple ways of interpreting this tale; however, going with the conclusions I drew, I think the hunger artist represents every creator who ever longed for recognition... Or even a chance to practice his art, or say whatever he wanted to say. We all go through our lives with a nagging sense of unease, a slight crinkle of unfulfilled desire at the corner of our eyes.

The hunger artist wastes away in his anticipation.

We merely die a little every day.

Why do we lead such unsatisfying lives? Why do we fast for longer and longer periods, when it is not food but nourishment that we actually need? There's a million references I could throw at you right now-Taare Zameen Par and some brash lovesong by the INXS and every frigging Rocky movie ever made-but I don't really need to do that, do I?

You already know what I'm talking about.

You've known all along, in fact. This is why we root for the underdog. And it is also the reason behind the populace's disinterest and suspicion when it comes to the hunger artist-because the mirror he holds up to their faces is so woefully accurate. They can all see a little bit of themselves in the artist; and at the same time they are unable to provide him the food he needs above all others.

Since you've read this far, let us try an experiment.

I'll assume I hold your unadulterated, undivided attention.

And you can assume I keep soliloquizing on the magic of Kafka (although I really think I need to go read the rest of that collection - I might miss a lot of the finer points, but ol' Frannypack is equally comfortable swapping his fine chisel for a sledgehammer).

There. We just freed up fifteen minutes (or fourteen, if you're still reading). Take these fourteen minutes, and put 'em where they'll give you the maximum amount of joy... Go listen to those songs you heard when you were young(er) and carefree. Read the first two pages of that paperback you were saving up for a rainy day.

Or if your activity of choice will take more than that to accomplish, write it down somewhere. That way, the next time you're about to blow two hours watching No Entry again on television, you can get off the couch and go painting instead. Or any of the wonderful things that give you peace.

Now. Go.

It might not make much of a difference... But it is a really small slice of your life, ain't it?

And this happens to be the only one you've got.

Now if you'll excuse me, I have to go draw up a bucket list for July 10 to July 16th... We'll talk about it in detail some other time.