The Boy with the Henna Tattoo

The sanguine surfaces of his palms were draped in rose-orange patterns of henna. He gleamed with anticipation.  As he drew closer to the school, he could already sense their admiring glances and affectionate purrs. Even from a distance, the love was palpable.

He found it difficult to contain his mirth; and as he crossed the school-yard, a silly smile found a place on his lips.

“What happiness beams, from your silly little smile! Won’t you show me your joy, and make some of it mine?” said the girl who wore red ribbons in the her hair.

He pulled his hands from the inside of his pockets and unfurled the rose-orange patterns on his palms. The centers covered with heavy blooms, and the peripheries laced with swirling foliage; it was a pattern of riveting unity.   The girl who wore red ribbons in her hair peered into his palms with much interest. Meticulously, she explored each bloom for unfinished petals, and combed each leaf for broken veins, but—she could find none.

“How admirable a pattern, for a henna tattoo! My love and affection, does it draw to you!” exclaimed the girl who wore red ribbons in her hair.

The boy with the henna tattoo grew with pride and bowed his head in thanks. Next he saw the boy who wore a gold button on his collar.

“Look what beauty, in my palms I hide! Makes it not just, all my hubris and pride?” said the boy with the henna tattoo.

The boy who wore a gold button in his collar examined the sinews and bends of the rose-orange blooms, and the curves and falls of the encircling vines. He perused the entire pattern, seeking fault in structure or form, and yet–he could find none.

“How envious I am, of this magnificent design! My only qualm  be, that were it not yours but mine!” said the boy who wore a gold button in his collar.

The boy with the henna tattoo stood broader and more erect, now calling all the boys and girls of the school-yard to come see the cause of his cheer and delight. One-by-one, all the boys and girls scrutinized the rose-orange patterns on his palms, and congratulated the boy with the henna tattoo.

Just then approached the mustachioed man who wore grey-blue plants.

“Oh just see this clamor, and the ensuing noise! Are you children of men, or sorry seeds of sepoys?” said the mustachioed man who wore grey-blue pants.

The boy with the henna tattoo weaved through the bay of children, and approached the mustachioed man who wore grey-blue pants.

“But dread not the love, oh dear mustachioed sir! These palms are the culprits, who such affection incur! said the boy with the henna tattoo.

The mustachioed man with grey-blue pants inspected the pattern shrewdly, probing the lines that formed the blooms, and dissecting the strokes that held the foliage. He, like the rest, searched for some fatal defect.

“Ah what fine artistry, your palms do display! But but how I pity the one blunder, that does lead the whole thing astray!” exclaimed the mustachioed man with grey-blue pants.

The children looked about incredulously, wondering what fault the man had found. Even the boy with the henna tattoo stood shocked, waiting for this error to be proclaimed.

The mustachioed man with grey-blue pants continued: ” In those vines and the blooms, can I fathom no flaw! Even these buds and tendrils, do inspire reverence and awe! Though answer me this question that, herein I propose to you : can the art be so brilliant, if the canvas be all askew?”

The boy with the henna tattoo searched for meaning in these last few words, but could find none. He looked up to the mustachioed man with grey-blue pants, and caught him forming a slight curl with his lips.

“Oh you soft little brat, do I truly need explain? Henna is for girls—it’s just simple and plain! ” bellowed the mustachioed man with grey-blue pants.

The boy with the henna tattoo flushed and shrunk in shame. He tried to imagine the faces of all the boys and girls who stood behind him. Were they shocked or were they giggling? Were they upset or just simmering?

A bolt of anger coursed through his spine, and the boy with the henna tattoo straightened up to address the mustachioed man with the grey-blue pants, “So easily strips a child, the obtusely formed man! And yet he could not craft, what the child easily can! Here’s a simpler question that, I pray your intellect might perceive: can that man accumulate wisdom, whose mind be but a sieve?”

The mustachioed man with grey-blue pants turned pink-red. He clenched his teeth and tightened his five fingers into a solid sheet. With the quick swivel of his back, he brought down a commanding slap to the face of the boy with the henna tattoo, who swooned into a clockwise pirouette before toppling down onto the cement.

The mustachioed man articulated an emphatic grunt, adjusted his belt, and walked away. The boys and the girls of the school-yard encircled the boy with the henna tattoo, carressing him as if they were his worker-bees and he their queen. The boy with the henna tattoo released a sullen gasp. Then, as if speaking simultaneously to to no one and also to everyone, he said,

“They revile my beauty, though seeking love I came!

Though we be different with our differences,  is each really not the same?

With no shame do they scorn, our ribbons, buttons, and bells;

But don’t they see we are creatures, fragile without our shells?

Woe unto us, who bring the inward out!

This world is not for us, girls and boys;

Whenceforth, Henceforth, Elsewhere!

There, we shall live our bout.”