Saturday, March 1, 2014

To Her ...


 I was born to write. I cannot think of any other methods or ways of expression other than words, written down as it flows. I often suffer from word constipation and I cannot write for months. And that is the fate of some of my writings that has not been revisited as I have literally choked for lack of vision maybe.

Yet, the only other mode or medium that i find so similar to writing is painting. I have seen some best works, I have met world-renowned artists, spoken and understood their urge to say what they have to say through a palette of colours.


And I see an artist everyday, waking up to dreams of colours and sleeping to those achieved dreams. My mother, born to paint dreams. Her heart, her soul belongs to the world of colours.

She is a floral lover. Every petal, every leaf looks like it is alive. She started at five by painting little lilies on handkerchiefs for her grandmother. Today, she designs ensembles that are worn by every woman who understands the beauty and story that goes into painting flowers.


My mother's love for flowers is so adorable that I would wonder if she could paint a flower that never existed. And she did. Unlike me, she does not suffer from any constipation, but then she says, "when you have designed your masterpiece, replicating it is not advisable. It is called your masterpiece for a reason".

I believe this is true. When I suffer my constant stagnation, she says, "why can't you write? Why cant words flow like colours flow for me?" Every painting is a story told by her. And one can see it for themselves.


I always wish that I would be able to at least tell the world the story of my hero who has told many stories through her beautiful talent.

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