Canvas

12:15.
The grandfather adds a bit more of the acrylic ochre to the yellowed tips of the fallen gulmohars.
A pinch of deep crimson on their shadowy insides.
His strong veiny hands moving swiftly across the blues of the tiny pointy houses in the distance.

The velvetouch round brush hovers over the blend of light and dark greys for a second or two, on the palette, until his mind assures him the cloudy canopy seems to be just fine.

The sunless street-side bricks match the orange hued bench, thrown dramatically under the bald tree.

15:15.
The boy, 6, is staring at the rectangular canvas.

The grandfather pours the third cup of tea of his day, and lowers himself onto the brown mahogany rocking chair, facing the boy's back.

A door is being closed somewhere.

'Grandpa', he says.

The aroma of the Darjeeling tea floods their nostrils.

Slurping the tea and scanning a picturisque book, he lets out a heavy 'hmm'.

'Why is he cry ?' 

The old man cranes his neck a little and takes a peek at the painting the boy is staring at.

Under the grey zenith, under the bare branches of the tree, on the rust-coloured bench, there is a man. Body bent over and face hidden into his palms, he seems to be grieving. The decaying gulmohars are scattered on the concrete ground beneath him, like the mute audience of this spectacle.

'He's not crying, his head just feels a bit heavy', he replies, once again leafing through the book.

Its front cover reads in bold black letters, " THE WHITE RABBIT AND OTHER CHILDREN'S STORIES ".

The boy doesn't seem convinced.

Glancing at his grandfather, he says, 'The world is bad, so he cry', his tiny forefinger pointing to the hand-borne hunched figure.

The grandfather is a little taken aback by the boy's stance.

'Come here', the grandfather now calls him near and gently pulls the boy into his lap and shuffles through the pages of the lavender etched book, beginning to narrate a story from it.

The boy sits silently throughtout the story, legs dangling and hands lightly fiddling with the collar of his yellow buttoned-up shirt.

A couple of minutes go by.

The grandfather concludes the story midway noticing the child to be fast asleep. The tender apple of his cheeks are a flushed pink, forehead empty of any creases.

It's 15.30.

He puts the boy to bed.

15.30
The painting sits idle in the living room.

Golden sunrays seamlessly pouring in through the west glass window.

15.31
The sunlight begins to wane from the room.

A crow caws somewhere in the quiet of the settling dusk.

15.32.
The children's book rests on the beige cushion of the rocking chair.

15.33
The grandfather steps out of the house into the chaotic park twinkling with giggling and tittering children.

The stars have started to make their appearances in the pink-purple bedsheet of the firament.

The street lights are hesitant still.

He mindlessly occupies the rust-coated bench under the bare branches of the autumn-gulmohar.
His head a little heavy, slowly occupies the hollow of his two palms.

A boy in white buttoned-up shirt picks up a gulmohar petal.

15.33.
A painting.

A grey sky.

A pair of blue house-tops.

A bare tree.

A carrot-coloured bench.

A man.
Sad probably.

A number of scattered gulmo....drops of blood.

A few red street-side bric...stabbed doves.

15.34.
A honed dagger hides somewhere within the cabinets of the kitchen or in the vibgyor of the canvas.

15.35.
A killer mourns for the dead.

15.36.
Can a killer mourn for the dead ?

15.37.
Does a killler kill others ?

15.38.
Who kills ?

15.39.
An old man on a bench.

15.40.
A children's book.

15.41.
A (mourn)ster ?

- who killed you grandpa ?