Midnight crept as the old painter stood staring at his old
masterpieces that had amazed innumerable minds decades ago. His trembling right
hand held a peg of whiskey and his rusted lips supported a burning cigarette. A
worn out coat, an old pyjama and a pair of chappals covered his thin bony
figure and his eyes traversed every nook and corner of his art gallery which
was once the most famous centre of exhibition in the city. Pausing by the
"The Bridge", he tried to recollect the fortune that was showered on
to him and most importantly his fabulous life that prevailed during those days.
These daily observations were not unusual for him. But that day was different. It was the day of his anniversary and to his utmost regret his wife had left him thirty years ago. Tears rolled down his cheeks as he gulped a shot and looked his most favourite work, "Beauty of a Lifetime" which depicted her, ornamented with the lovely ring he gifted in their wedding. Her demise arrived in exchange of every little joy in his life as a merciless fate was bestowed upon him. Every time he thought about the sudden trajectory, every time it killed him inch by inch. He also seemed to have lost his smooth elegant touch with the brush that existed earlier, while various new painters conquered the minds of the customers. In spite of all his loss, she left behind one their precious creations to take of, their own little son.
Releasing a heavy puff, he roared a hard cough and a pile of memories of their happy little family ran through him without permission. He recovered from his shattered mind and gave a smile as he remembered his dreams of his son emerging to be a better painter than his father and in fact the best ever in the world. Like him, the little one too had the early knack of brushing out landscapes, portraits and antiques with ease.
"Father, I got first in the inter-school!" the boy from the fourth class yelled with excitement and playfully swung the medal around. He kissed his son on the forehead and said, "I am proud of you, my boy."
"One day I'll use your brush and canvas to make the greatest painting in the world", the little one replied.
But his sunny days were short lived. A few weeks later fate sung the rhyme of an adverse prelude by taking away his love forever, leaving him bewildered and damaged. This left his son astonished too. One could hardly imagine the effect of losing one's mother at such a small age. Though he continued, his paintings seemed to yield little of the earlier juice in them that attracted his fans. Sometimes he would remain lonely for hours engrossed in contradictory thoughts. Wealth started to degrade rapidly and it became difficult for him to sustain his normality. His son grew up gradually to a teen, then to a young person, but in all these years he never took to his father's profession by the core of his heart. The boy got curtailed in the bad winds of the city and the little artist in him got erased bit by bit, which deeply agonized his father.
Sometimes he would make his son sit with him explaining the ideologies of the world and how he should take to his artistic view of life. But it resulted in vain as he had to search for the distracted soul for days only to find him smoking weed in the vulgar corners. He was in debt, struck by disease and hardly could make his two ends meet. If only, his son could aid him with the slightest possible contribution. But still, the man loved him because he was the only left gem, his only little son in his remaining life. He hoped that his boy would soon step into his shoes and fulfil his dream. His disease had made him weaker day by day and a consolation from his son was the last thing he wished for.
A cold breeze made the old man shiver to his tender bones and suddenly arose from all these distant memories. His empty whiskey bottle flushed disappointment in him. Drunken thoughts powered the trembling hand to grasp a flat brush. He soaked it deep in the grey bowl of color and stroke it in the blank white canvas for another night's paint.
"Father", he whispered, "Wake up Father ', the boy screamed shaking the old man's shoulder. Shocked, he stood, he saw that the lean body in the chair had turned cold, his father was no more.
Dropping on his knees he held him tightly and glanced at the painting that lied against his dead father. A tear drop twinkled down his face as he saw the little one kissed by his father.
He rose gently lifting the brush from the frozen hand and soaked it. Slowly he went up to where he had always tried for but couldn't, and laid the first stroke on his father's canvas.
These daily observations were not unusual for him. But that day was different. It was the day of his anniversary and to his utmost regret his wife had left him thirty years ago. Tears rolled down his cheeks as he gulped a shot and looked his most favourite work, "Beauty of a Lifetime" which depicted her, ornamented with the lovely ring he gifted in their wedding. Her demise arrived in exchange of every little joy in his life as a merciless fate was bestowed upon him. Every time he thought about the sudden trajectory, every time it killed him inch by inch. He also seemed to have lost his smooth elegant touch with the brush that existed earlier, while various new painters conquered the minds of the customers. In spite of all his loss, she left behind one their precious creations to take of, their own little son.
Releasing a heavy puff, he roared a hard cough and a pile of memories of their happy little family ran through him without permission. He recovered from his shattered mind and gave a smile as he remembered his dreams of his son emerging to be a better painter than his father and in fact the best ever in the world. Like him, the little one too had the early knack of brushing out landscapes, portraits and antiques with ease.
"Father, I got first in the inter-school!" the boy from the fourth class yelled with excitement and playfully swung the medal around. He kissed his son on the forehead and said, "I am proud of you, my boy."
"One day I'll use your brush and canvas to make the greatest painting in the world", the little one replied.
But his sunny days were short lived. A few weeks later fate sung the rhyme of an adverse prelude by taking away his love forever, leaving him bewildered and damaged. This left his son astonished too. One could hardly imagine the effect of losing one's mother at such a small age. Though he continued, his paintings seemed to yield little of the earlier juice in them that attracted his fans. Sometimes he would remain lonely for hours engrossed in contradictory thoughts. Wealth started to degrade rapidly and it became difficult for him to sustain his normality. His son grew up gradually to a teen, then to a young person, but in all these years he never took to his father's profession by the core of his heart. The boy got curtailed in the bad winds of the city and the little artist in him got erased bit by bit, which deeply agonized his father.
Sometimes he would make his son sit with him explaining the ideologies of the world and how he should take to his artistic view of life. But it resulted in vain as he had to search for the distracted soul for days only to find him smoking weed in the vulgar corners. He was in debt, struck by disease and hardly could make his two ends meet. If only, his son could aid him with the slightest possible contribution. But still, the man loved him because he was the only left gem, his only little son in his remaining life. He hoped that his boy would soon step into his shoes and fulfil his dream. His disease had made him weaker day by day and a consolation from his son was the last thing he wished for.
A cold breeze made the old man shiver to his tender bones and suddenly arose from all these distant memories. His empty whiskey bottle flushed disappointment in him. Drunken thoughts powered the trembling hand to grasp a flat brush. He soaked it deep in the grey bowl of color and stroke it in the blank white canvas for another night's paint.
"Father", he whispered, "Wake up Father ', the boy screamed shaking the old man's shoulder. Shocked, he stood, he saw that the lean body in the chair had turned cold, his father was no more.
Dropping on his knees he held him tightly and glanced at the painting that lied against his dead father. A tear drop twinkled down his face as he saw the little one kissed by his father.
He rose gently lifting the brush from the frozen hand and soaked it. Slowly he went up to where he had always tried for but couldn't, and laid the first stroke on his father's canvas.
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