Do you know that this room has been mine, for the last 20 years? many arrays of septadyed arches have steeped in after every rain the little hole in the glazed glass would be let open for my specked friends to drop in they were not ambitious i always hated being polarised by them in my drury atelier where i could not paint I hated the light that you love so much the staircases you see has been reinstalled after my mother died from its steepness my mother would ask me to aim high like the brisking effervescence that would rise when Eno puddled in my dad's glass failing to rejuvenate him after every mouthful occasion my mother never sung to me lullabies she would tell me how she wants to die from the steepness of life this room has been mine for the last twenty years after my father died just a single room with deceptive sockets one.or two. that would sizzle me and pull me tight when i tried to switch on the lights. yes, i told you how much i hated lights that would tell me of my existence, of the places i visit of hands that i have it would tell me who i am am i the id, or the super ego? i am the patient that you have never seen on the cruelest ventilation the kitchen remains closed all the time as the oil dripping from the chimney reminds me of mother how she refused to fry me pakoras after every such rain in june when in some hidden rooms we were trapped by gallus concupiscence bloating from medicated shields few wings of rust remained on the laminated floors that your beueifully charcoaled eyes could never see i have been unnerved by a deep cut from such a rusted morality have i told you that the chimney reminds me of you too? how i loved to tie your hair from behind when you chopped the greens or stenched your brows with batter? how i loved the evenings when you cooked me the refused pakoras how i loved to kiss your tired hands hands,with the sweetest articulated wrinkles but why could i never tell you? how much i hated your connivance from every distant discussions the room that belongs to me has been walked across several times i could see sever faces tied and distilled from the sweetened sweat of your body several tunnels being filled up by the swooshing growl of a northern engine twin hills covered by the ochre of their body i felt like Lorca painting for dali the brushes that never moved in delight from the canvas of infidelity the freedom took a flight across the 1 bhk horizon the canvas was still bare like your love for me the naked morphs gets deeper into rugged cloth your red slowly flows towards my perception as i stand with jutting eyelashes when your tired,sweet,wrinkled hand tries to cover your eyes in shame i pick up the drops of red to paint the last curve of your lips but i knew, only your breasts were my artistic indulgence though i was never an artist infected by my own credulousness......................................... .death of an artist.20th may,2014.8:24 pm
Indian Literature Review | Chandril Chattopadhyay
Author : Chandril Chattopadhyay
Indian Authors & Poets | Chandril Chattopadhyay writes on Indian Review | Indian Literature and Poetry from India and the world over.
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