A Lesson From A Painter

I didn’t know what could have killed me more brutally. Mother’s words that afternoon on the telephone, “Maybe you deserve to die alone.” or the air of Kruger Bluff, that reeked of cheap alcohol and petrol fumes.

The ruffling winds scattered the bold red leaves onto the sickening, concrete thoroughfare of Kruger Bluff. In all of Wolfsburg, it was just here where the streets meandered in an unprecedented layout and the houses were built with no spaces in between them.

It was my first time here yet I had known enough about the people who lived here.The armour-plated and crude men, women and children of Kruger Bluff, who worked day and night to fetch little money, were named as ‘Knave Krugers’ throughout Wolfsburg. Rumours surrounding them included horrific tales of robbery and murder for money. No one, not even crazy researchers ever came here.

I didn’t know what exactly brought me there  except that I had a call from Mother, who perspicuously told me that if I didn’t come back home and took over our family restaurant, she would sieze from giving me any tuition fees for college. Or maybe my intrinsic inquisitivity had taken control of me as it had always been a subject of inquisitivity, for me ,  that a place like this had existed in the beautiful city of Wolfsburg. Kruger Bluff was like a dark blot on a pretty parchment. Like a big hole in a wedding dress.

My gaze lingered over unorganized stalls made of canvas and open kitchens of cafes and occasionally my feet would stumble by the lurching crowds on the narrow stripped lanes. The walls were home to many hilarious caricatures of the rest of the city dwellers. A mutual animosity, it seemed.

And then my gaze landed on an old , shabby man with a beard that went down his heavy chest , sitting on the pavement. His hair seemed like it hadn’t been combed for years and his face so pallid, it appeared he was about to die. As my sight horizon enlarged, many canvas paintings and sculptures emerged in it.

Suddenly, a brunette around of slightly above ten years appeared in front of him and pointed towards a canvas painting.

“You got money today girl?” He croaked.

She shook her head.

“Get ya head lost away from here!” He said boorishly.

Before I could see where the girl went, my eyes got glued on a painting kept beside him. It was a myriad of colours in relaxed swishes and impetuous strokes over the face of a child screaming in agony, with his mouth open as if trying to suck lots of air in. His eyes were shut tightly and he seemed naked aa his shoulders were bare of any clothes. Some swishes of yellow fell on his face that resembled something like a ray of light.

“Can I see that painting?” I asked the seller.

“Money or not?” He guffawed.

“Yes, I do. I have money.”

He motioned for me to pick it up from the ground.

When I turned the painting around, it said ‘Flash Of Freedom.’

The light was the Light of Freedom, I concluded.

“How much?” I asked with caution as I didn’t want to rupture his daydreams.

“Fifty.” He gruffed without looking in my eyes.

Although I left Kruger Bluff and went back home after my purchase, my mind stayed there -on the old painter, to be precise. Maybe he had painted this out of an inundating, insurmountable calling for freedom from his miseries at Kruger Bluff. He had painted a child, so that must mean something too. Maybe he was that child. Maybe he had felt suffocated since his very childhood. Or his inner child or his grandchild. Did he even have any? Questions swarmed my mind. I had wanted to know more and more about him after this painting. There was something about it that had drawn me to it like iron to magnets. Like butterflies to flowers.