Papa was an artist. I wont call him a painter but he was an artist. And he was like anyother artist who rarely cuts his hair, comes out of his room and very rarely talks to anyone….but that didnt matter to me. I was always proud of him. And I loved those colors he put in his canvas. He always had a plain white canvas in his room…before he makes use of one, he makes sure that another will take that place. And that plain white canvas was treated as the most valuable thing in that room. I never understand why. I never asked either.
I thought I would be just like him when I grow up and I will draw my dreams, I will give colors to my dreams, and I will give them wings. And my son would be so proud of me…. Never matter.Today neither I have a dream nor a son.
But there is still one white canvas in my room. And it reminds me of an unfinished art, an upstarted work, a help seeking hand, a call from life….which tells me that are miles to go. I dont know what the white canvas meant for papa. Neither do I know what it means to you…but its true, u too have a plain white canvas with you. Draw your dreams, give them colors…give them wings