I am not a painter, have never touched a canvas, never splashed colors on to white space awaiting life. But had I been a painter, I would have drawn you crossing the street, catching light, long burgundy hairs catching flight.
I would have painted your smiling face looking up to the skies, your jingling laughter floating around the floors, while you chat on a telephone. I would have painted you in your thoughtful moments, deep black silent eyes poignant, your entire frame frozen, waiting, for that one one moment of clarity, and then the sun would shine again.
I would have painted you riding your bike, your face covered with a shawl, a terrorist on trawl. And I would have painted you looking at me all confused, not knowing what to make out of all the stupid things I say, giving up, and letting be.
I am not a painter but a writer. And it is you I paint, in every written word of my life.
I would have painted you riding your bike, your face covered with a shawl, a terrorist on trawl. And I would have painted you looking at me all confused, not knowing what to make out of all the stupid things I say, giving up, and letting be.
I am not a painter but a writer. And it is you I paint, in every written word of my life.
Also Published in Muse India, Jan-Feb 2017 issue
Rajesh, you paint very well with words.
ReplyDeleteOh Rajesh, you have painted a masterpiece with these words. The imagery so vivid, so full of feeling. Truly, truly beautiful!
ReplyDeleteToo good! Each word you write strikes a cord deep within. Thank you for a wonderful read! :)
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