My father is a Doctor by profession, but a painter by passion. He has had 11 solo exhibition of paintings at the Academy of Fine arts, Kolkata and also several collaborated ones. This poem is dedicated to him, my hero, my idol, my faith, My BABA.
The poem was written from a childhood memory, when I used to watch him paint, I think I was about 10 years old at that time. Then one day I decided to ask him if I could paint too, that’s when he said those lines in the poem. He has been an inspiration for me my entire life.
Poetry Month Special
The lines of his forehead furrows deeper
As his brush strikes the paper, like a sword,
Making it bleed colours, making it surrender to his art.
I quietly watch him from the window,
Scared of disturbing the creation.
Suddenly he rises and leaves the room.
The half smoked cigarette on the counter, emits smoke
Coiling up in the air
He comes back in again, oblivious
Of my little face peering through the window
He gets back to his art
Now with renewed passion.
The lines on his forehead smoothens out,
With final stokes of his brush, he finishes his liquid poetry,
I stand at a distance, admiring the man, the art.
The lines on his forehead, deepens again,
As he picks up another blank paper,
This time I summon courage and walk into his room.
He looks up, disturbed, he says
“What do you want child?’
‘To paint’ I say ‘Like you’ I add
‘Well you can’t’ He says,
My face falls, and he laughs.
Handing me a paper and brush he adds
‘You can paint, but only like yourself, and not like me.’
Happiness floods my being, I add with laughter
‘When can I start?’
‘Now’ he says, ‘Now is always a good time,’
‘Thank you Baba’ I say, and sit down next to him.
The painter and his daughter,
We continue together, he with his masterpiece
And me, with my first of many.
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