Wednesday, April 6, 2011


The water was blue , blue , blue. Blue not of azure water, neither of expanding sky , but the blue of blueness. It was brimmed with the subtleness of curiosity and all I could feel was the shyness of waves, of the path they changed , fearing to strike one another. The water seemed so happy with itself , engrossed in resolving its little notions that it would have certainly missed that I was near, near like the petty stones, near to its blueness. I wondered why I was noticing it with peace , when I had so much turmoil within myself. I left the little pond  we had outside our house and went inside by myself, still feeling blue. I reached to the wall which I was painting and carefully started studying the movements of my brush. I could not afford to make any wrong move. I wondered how dancers manage their movements . Such would be the detail by which they handle their postures. I started using red instead, helped me to come out of my blueness. I always felt I could imagine things beyond the shrinking thoughts and with the nothingness sustaining and that’s why perhaps I was an artist. Riya returned from her college , as her shout indicated. She wanted me at her service now. Mothers are implicitly treated as someone who would sacrifice till eternity. I wiped her forehead of sweat, wishing I wipe off her worries too . I could sense something started bothering her the moment she saw me painting anything. I failed to know what it was, so just decided to express my worries vaguely by such actions . I gave her all what she wanted, at that moment, and otherwise too.
A few days later I was again sitting near the pond when she gripped me and asked, about what I wanted as my mothers day present. Riya was a big girl now. She managed her expenses by a nice job that she bagged an year ago. I was overwhelmed by the gesture that she would  consider my existence for some day called mother's day. I felt happy.  I took my hands out of the blue water and told her all I want is to see her happy always. 
Riya was the only one I had. My husband left us. Riya hated the fact that mean men existed. She loved me a lot, but I could not sometimes measure love. She had her own ways of loving in an inexpressive way.
It was two days before the mother's day. Riya was growing uneasy , I could feel her anxiety  filling the entire house. Just the night before the mother’s day , she called me to her room and told me that she was looking at all the old albums. Her room was organized now. I couldn't understand what's on her mind. She was staring at me , I knew. She held my hands in hers and said, " I know I have been so bad to you all the time, the truth is that I love you the most in this world . Tomorrow you have to come with me to the hospital. You will get back your eyes. I want you to see the beautiful things you paint, the magazines that contain the eulogies on your outlook towards art. See how great an artist this world takes you to be, the millions of money that you make out of your paintings. The Reds you use, the blue you always wanted to see."
The fact that I was a blind painter always perturbed Riya. I told her I need no eyes for myself. I need them just to see you. And I feel nice when I can touch and imagine you , that way, atleast for abrupt reasons ,  I'll always be closer to you. What use are eyes for. And she always felt disgusted by my thoughts. Riya wanted me to have eyes too .
I was happy to know that I finally know what made her so tense since the last one month. 
And started the day , I was admitted . The wait was of one day . Riya was disappearing in between. She had her best friend baby sit me all the time. A day later the doctor gave me the privilege to see. Obviously I demanded to see my girl first of all, along with her friend who was baby sitting me. 
I opened my eyes, and found hers woven under bandage. A sudden pain wretched my existence , and I was in tears. I now knew how much she loved me. And just wished I could have not loved her so much , that to make me see the blue, she opted to suffice her eyes with black only. 
Love relatively bounces back... If not... Its not love ....

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