Posted: September 8, 2011 in Serious matter

The painter woke up…
He was in khadi kurta and pyjama.
His head was throbbing with the dream that still raced inside his mind.
The dream was made up of a rush of dirty colors
Of wailing women and starving babies
Of famished farmers and scheming politicians
Of battered women and exploited children
Of radiant youths and crashing dreams.
He walked to his canvas
Determined to spill his vision out on the white cloth
He raised his brush
He stopped
He put down his brush and walked away
He looked around at his happy life
At his contentment
And yawned and stretched…
He had some money to count, some bills to pay, some career encouragement to give to his children,
Some shopping to do, some household chores, some policies, some insurance…. before he died.
And he realized he had already died. Just waiting for his death.


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