Under the palm trees

The artist

1~

As usual, I was lazing on the roof, languidly stroking the pages with brushes dipped in random bright colours. The sight of the thick fresh white page had initially induced images of fantastical scenes in me. And those images had the potential to stun onlookers if it was successfully transferred from my mind to that page. Maybe it was that stroke I had carelessly made or maybe it was that wrong shade of purple or maybe I just lacked the talent because the originally minimalistic white page now resembled a pallid murky version of the evening sky.

Hidden under the boughs of dark trees and from the eyes of humans, that part of the vast orange roof was my own sanctuary. It was the only place in the world where I felt belonged. No one bothered me there. So when a soft thud of feet on the roof was heard, I nearly dropped my canvas in pure unrestrained terror.

I looked up. There stood a lean defined figure shielding the sunlight from my eyes.

No words were exchanged between me and the stranger. That shaggily dressed man gracefully sat next to me on the ledge of the roof. He glanced at my crude painting. I felt embarrassed. Before I could hold the canvas away from his shamelessly criticising gaze, he grasped it. He tugged on the wet paper lightly, paint imprinted his tapering fingers and I felt my grasp on the canvas slowly slip away.

I watched him as he studied my painting. He possessed that smell. That unusual toxic smell of acrylic colours, cigarettes and imposing talent. With no delay, he picked up the brush and started working on my messed up work. I noticed the paint stuck in between his nails and a light green hue marking the side of his forehead. However he kept the painting he was working on away from my prying eyes.

He cautiously held the brush between his forefinger and middle finger while he rebelliously picked up shades of greens, blues and pinks with a lopsided grin adorning his face. For a second, I thought he was bonkers by the raving maniacal and strangely artistic manner he was treating my painting.

No words were exchanged again. Silence spoke sagas, sang ballads and recited poems between us.

Finally I felt his tensed shoulders relax. He handed over the finished painting to me with a far away dazed look in his black-brown eyes. I turned my attention to the modified work.

The painting of the sky was now unrealistically colourful like it was dressed in a rainbow. The clouds blended in yet stood out. And a single ray of light peeked from between a mass of clouds. That ray looked so real that I could feel the warmth of it on my face. A drop of sweat trickled down my face.

I looked up, presuming that I would meet with his mocking gaze but unlike what I had thought, the man was walking away. His mud licked barefoot softly slapped the earthen roof as he walked away, leaving me astonished.

I took few deep breaths of fresh air for I disliked his infuriating smell. I stared at the painting once more. How did he capture my imagination on the paper? That exact image that had occurred to my mind before beginning the painting. Strange things always happened in life but this was just too much to take in. Staring off in the distance, I let out a sigh.

And that was how I first met the artist.

2~

The roof was no longer my secret little hiding place. The artist had so blatantly taken refuge of my favourite spot that I felt slightly annoyed. But I must admit that he proved to be a better company than the orange ants that carried their fat eggs behind their backs and occasionally bit me.