Friday, March 6, 2009

Death of an artist

The artist died early this morning. By the time the day broke; mourners from every corner of the town & far off places started flowing in. The small room was filled by people and smell of flowers. Somewhere loud cries, few drops of tears at places and random memories somewhere. It was unexpected. The artist had few drinks last evening like every day with his few friends, and then he had his dinner and closed the door of this studio. He had completed the unfinished painting just before the horizon started becoming whitish. His tired eyes were looking for some rest, and he got the eternal rest. He loved to deliver unexpectedly brilliant pieces of art every time, the same way he showed his death. Did he know while doing the signature on the last painting, that it’s going to be his last signature of his life?

Among hundreds of mourners who filled the room in a way that the artist’s dead body was feeling suffocated; there were this pair of eyes. Nobody could make out anything special about them. The eyes knew they are not supposed to shed a single drop of tears here, else people could question about the reason & intensity of pain. The eyes knew they are not supposed to get a closer look of the artist, as the near & nearest places are taken by the dear & dearest friends and relatives. These eyes spent innumerable hours when the artist just wanted to see them from closest possible distance. These eyes have seen the artist, every bit of him, on the seashore, on the mountains and in dimmed candle light in a corner of his studio.

It was time to take the corpse to the cremation ground. Friends took the body up and slowly made their way out from the small room. They took the artist in front of those eyes. The eyes saw the artist for the last time and then it’s a pain. Pain of loss, pain of losing the most valuable possession on earth which was hidden from the earth till now came forward with a loud cry. Nothing could possibly stop those eyes.

No more closest look; no more gratifying evenings; no more poetry; no more brilliant pieces of art!

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