Serene - one word that would describe the beautiful imagery around him. A lush green valley, mellifluously flowing river and mountain tops covered with snow. "God must have been an artist", he thought.
"Bleh, cliches!", said his snide alter ego. Somehow, though, that thought invoked a strange feeling of pride within him. He thought of himself at par with the Source. That was the name with which he chose to worship God. After all, he was an artist too. Or that is how people saw him. In his own words- that is how people labelled him.
"Oh, so you're a painter. Does that earn you enough money?"
When asked what he did for a living, he'd smile and say-"It's pretty simple. I wake up in the morning and recreate my dreams on a canvas with these... these pencils, oil pastels and brushes".
"Oh, so you're a painter. Does that earn you enough money?"
"Well, it makes me happy. Isn't that living enough?"
The modest smile is now replaced with a difficult expression that tried to conceal the apparent arrogance in the answer. More often than not, this was the longest conversation he would have with most people.
He wasn't anthropophobic and aloof, as most of these people again, had labeled him. Being comfortable around a lot of people was never his forte. But he did have a heart. A heart of gold, I'd say. Of late, he even took the kid next door for a ride on his old rusty motorbike and share an ice-cream with him - almost daily. He did this because that kid made him feel alive. Just like the valley he was overlooking and the scenery made him feel full of life. Every Saturday he'd go to the old age home in his neighborhood and mingle with his extended family. Share whatever little joy he had earnt with people who didn't have a lot to celebrate about, just like him. Because the only lesson his father taught him was "Always share your joy with as many people as you can. That is the only way you can truly be joyous. That is the only way you can truly be rich."
But as with heart, it wasn't so simple with the mind- his mind was his greatest possession and obsession.
Which is why he perhaps loved being lost in his own world. His dilapidated studio, which, ironically enough for the world, was named as Paradise. The sight of a jhola hanging besides a pair of worn out jeans and khakis, walls spray painted with a peace sign, a John Lennon poster on one wall and the stereo playing old-school rock. This would hardly resemble the image of paradise the world holds in its eyes. But to him, this was his own world, his paradise. Rather, he he preferred seeing it as his universe. Where in he would wake up each morning, mix a few colors on his palette and paint a new world; as he saw it, as he wished it should be. Not how a few hundred people think it is or should be or as it was defined by the Source. Here, he was the source. He would create, recreate, erase and recreate until he felt it was perfect. Such was his obsession with being perfect.
This was his third visit to the mountains in the last week, where he biked up this distance to find peace that he no longer found in his studio. Wherever he sensed the immense presence of beauty in the surrounding, he'd just take out his canvas, mix a few colors on his old wooden palette and start creating strokes with the brush. And it would be a visual treat seeing his mind at work on the canvas. He would take just one good look at the panorama with his shiny blue eyes. Eyes that reflected passion and shone with such brilliance that it was almost impossible to look within and have a slightest hint of his sorrow. And then his golden hand would start painting the most beautiful strokes on the small piece of canvas. Create, erase, recreate. Yet again. Seeing him in action was as charming and elegant as a magician performing a magic trick. At sunset, the canvas would be complete. Thus, he would have created his own world. As he saw it.
With dusk approaching, he would bike down the treacherous slopes of the valley to come back to his studio. But paradise was hardly found. Yet he had faith. In himself and the Source. Like Milton's Paradise Regained, he too would find his lost paradise soon. If he stopped looking around frantically., it would appear right in front of him. As clear as his vision while making those master strokes on the canvas.
He wasn't anthropophobic and aloof, as most of these people again, had labeled him. Being comfortable around a lot of people was never his forte. But he did have a heart. A heart of gold, I'd say. Of late, he even took the kid next door for a ride on his old rusty motorbike and share an ice-cream with him - almost daily. He did this because that kid made him feel alive. Just like the valley he was overlooking and the scenery made him feel full of life. Every Saturday he'd go to the old age home in his neighborhood and mingle with his extended family. Share whatever little joy he had earnt with people who didn't have a lot to celebrate about, just like him. Because the only lesson his father taught him was "Always share your joy with as many people as you can. That is the only way you can truly be joyous. That is the only way you can truly be rich."
But as with heart, it wasn't so simple with the mind- his mind was his greatest possession and obsession.
Which is why he perhaps loved being lost in his own world. His dilapidated studio, which, ironically enough for the world, was named as Paradise. The sight of a jhola hanging besides a pair of worn out jeans and khakis, walls spray painted with a peace sign, a John Lennon poster on one wall and the stereo playing old-school rock. This would hardly resemble the image of paradise the world holds in its eyes. But to him, this was his own world, his paradise. Rather, he he preferred seeing it as his universe. Where in he would wake up each morning, mix a few colors on his palette and paint a new world; as he saw it, as he wished it should be. Not how a few hundred people think it is or should be or as it was defined by the Source. Here, he was the source. He would create, recreate, erase and recreate until he felt it was perfect. Such was his obsession with being perfect.
This was his third visit to the mountains in the last week, where he biked up this distance to find peace that he no longer found in his studio. Wherever he sensed the immense presence of beauty in the surrounding, he'd just take out his canvas, mix a few colors on his old wooden palette and start creating strokes with the brush. And it would be a visual treat seeing his mind at work on the canvas. He would take just one good look at the panorama with his shiny blue eyes. Eyes that reflected passion and shone with such brilliance that it was almost impossible to look within and have a slightest hint of his sorrow. And then his golden hand would start painting the most beautiful strokes on the small piece of canvas. Create, erase, recreate. Yet again. Seeing him in action was as charming and elegant as a magician performing a magic trick. At sunset, the canvas would be complete. Thus, he would have created his own world. As he saw it.
With dusk approaching, he would bike down the treacherous slopes of the valley to come back to his studio. But paradise was hardly found. Yet he had faith. In himself and the Source. Like Milton's Paradise Regained, he too would find his lost paradise soon. If he stopped looking around frantically., it would appear right in front of him. As clear as his vision while making those master strokes on the canvas.
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