Canvas

There lies the white

In a room cluttered

There is a smell of damp wood

Wet by the moisture of paints and sweat

It stings the air

Creates a vacuum in the lungs

In the darkness, it sparkles

With a dull antiquated sheen

Newness is stark and sharp

This has a soothing warmth to it

Ironic, as the room is still cold

There is no inspiration

Eyes are glued to the pristine board

Not knowing what to do

Not knowing where to begin

Not knowing how to end

There builds a bond between the two

Speechless, yet heavy in meaning

The wood echoes the muted voices

There are no more in the room

But it feels claustrophobic

The white must go

The echoes around need to be inked

Only then will there be a breath

Respiration for life

Perspiration of desire

The paints drip

The canvas is weeping

With joy or sorrow is unknown

What lies in front is a motley of strokes

Is the air lighter?

The lungs expand

The chilled musty air rushes in

Discomfort persists

There is something wrong

I forgot to add my heart

Desiderata

I want to sit on a cushion of plush green grass

Let the cold dew drops wet my clothes and skin in patches

Allow the breeze to whisper sweet nothings into my ear

Bring a message from a dear old friend who lives afar

I want to creak on a wooden floor again

Let the dust from the past scrub my feet

Allow the words to echo and get absorbed into the walls

Bring a dialogue into the emptiness

I want to grease my hands with paint

Let the water and not tears dampen the canvas

Allow the brush to make its strokes of affection

Bring some colour into the lifeless

I want to run on that winding road

Let the yellow flowers shower my head and soul

Allow the scent of the trees to warm my insides

Bring out the shawl for a tight embrace

I want to laugh with you in that room

Let the door ajar for the cheer to spread

Allow the gang to join the communion

Bring out the tuck and tea

Its going to be a long night companions

Your secrets, they dance on my finger tips.

I saw him walking down the road I traverse everyday. It was a new face with wrinkles. He stumbled over blocks he was unaware of, but balanced himself. He was returning from his long walk, probably at the beach. He carried with him a scent of the west. The shirt he was wearing was probably a gift from his US-settled son/daughter. His shoes were brand new and he was still getting used to their grip, while losing his own of the world unknowingly. He carried with him a small stick to ward off chasing dogs. They all do.

There was a white plastic bag in his hand that I couldn't help but peep into. In there, were a couple of oranges and two packets covered with foil. Food, for sure. Steamy vapours of fragrance emanated from them. He won't let his wife cook today. They will sit back on a couch and eat the grub while discussing current affairs, a movie, their children/neighbours or bygone days. It'll be a relaxed evening with oranges for dessert. We're too old for ice-creams and too young to just feed on medicines.

People age very differently. I have seen many old people in my life so far and each one has been as different from the other as possible. But uncannily, they're all similar in numerous ways. They do behave like children but different children they all are. They're stubborn but about different things and in different degrees. They all look beautiful with experience, but sometimes that experience can be imposing, restrictive and harsh. They won't understand, so don't try to tell them. Change, other than physical, ceases to exist for them. That needs to be accepted at one level and ignored at another.

The summer colours are out. Bright. Scorching. Blazing. Glistening. I strangely like the heat. The pent up emotions erupt and cleanse one's soul. There's nothing that remains cooped up in cages, or so I think. Or so I would like to feel. I have probably started living in a parallel reality. Defense mechanism. I slip into it and take breaths of solace. Soothe the bursting blood vessels. No, I won't burst.

I have started my affair with the brush again. The paints are out and so is the virgin paper. The book is lying neglected next to it. Fortunately, its a book of anecdotes that doesn't need continuous sitting down. I can pick it up anytime and it'll welcome me with open arms. I wouldn't have missed anything. It'll read itself out to me and I promise to be a patient listener.

Its late and my eyes are droopy. I have a long day tomo. It shall be a good one and I shall spend it doing things I love and care about.

Goodnight my old man. I hope you had a nice meal and a nicer conversation.

Title: Courtesy the song Fortuneteller by Prateek Kuhad