Like a warm breath of air
He hovers in my memory
No superman, a meek soul
Not one to squander his time
But one who worked day in and out
To feed those
Whom he loved and sired
What was he?
A teacher, a farmer or an artist
I cannot say precisely...
All I can say;
He was each of these
Rolled into one
On holidays I saw him
Shut in the loft
a brush in hand
His fingers moving over the canvas
The steaming tea by his side
Untouched and getting cold as ice
Unmindful of everything around
He sat by the easel in the attic
Focussed only on the strokes that fell
When a distinct image shoots out
As the moon from behind clouds
A wave of satisfaction would gleam
Across his face,
His frantic nerves at once hushed
Bearing the look of one
Who, in an instant, conquered kingdoms
He would view it from different angles
Never seeking anyone’s opinion
But gloating if he saw
Our admiring eyes fell on it
Being artistically inclined
He lived more in the world of art
But gradually things changed
To his fright, he found his hands shaky
And the lines on the canvas
Going tremulous and disjointed
Couldn’t hold a brush!
On diagnosed of Parkinson’s disease
His world abruptly lost its sheen
He saw the disease weeding
Its way into his life
Suddenly grown old
He lost interest in everything
We saw him sitting in his armchair
So immobile, for hours on end
His eyes stretched to a far horizon
We displayed before him
Paintings once born of his imagination
To see if his world would brighten
And it worked!
Recently, in one of my dreams
I saw him sitting at the foot of Michael Angelo
To learn the art, he couldn’t perfect
In his life time!
As one grows old, when evening approaches, memories too lengthen like shadows.
Now I remember more often of my parents wondering how much of sweat and toil they had shed to make their children comfortable, how much of love they lavished and what all sacrifices they endured. A snap shot of my father who was a teacher by profession but more of an artist at heart.