Thursday, July 16, 2015

Broad strokes

I look around my kitchen. It looks clean. Everything has been put away after lunch, washed and dried. The leftovers packed away in boxes for tonight's dinner.The house is empty save for the sound of the grandfather clock. There is a gentle breeze that stirs the blinds and light plays hide and seek. I fall into the haze of the afternoon magic.
Not wanting to fall asleep, I walk out of the house into the backyard into the outhouse. That room has been locked for many years. As a newly wed bride, I stocked up on the usual supplies hoping to unleash my inner Saraswathi- paints, dyes, colors, brushes, canvases, oils. I became the Brahma, Vishnu and Shiva instead, of my own little world. My family grew, thrived and went away leaving me alone.
I tentatively step into the room. Dust has not gathered because I would periodically come in and clean everything up. I find the easel and the colors. My hand affectionately brushes the palette. My life has been a myriad of colors, from the warmest blue to the brightest yellow to joyous green and mournful black.
I hesitate before choosing my color. Red. Vibrant red. Life goes on. I start with small strokes, with an unsure hand. Then my instinct takes over. Broad strokes, broader strokes. Life goes on. The white vanishes from the canvas and is a mosaic of reds. I see myself in the red and the woman in the red is dancing. Life goes on.

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