Canvas for the Dead

Canvas for the Dead

“You’ve brought nothing but shame to this family. From this day onwards, I will have nothing to do with you!” were my mother, Mrs Parvati Sharma’s harsh words before she decided to legally disown me.

“Unholy” “impure “repulsive” “creepy” were some other words that got associated with me. It’s not that she does not love me anymore, I’m sure she does, but it had become difficult for her to live in the conservative Nepali society, where one‘s survival depends on “what other people think”. All because of me. Because of me, mother had become a social outcast; her relatives and friends had stopped inviting her to functions, and social gatherings, including her own mother’s family.

“Do you know, why Ganga can‘t look into people‘s eyes?” I’d overheard my maternal Grandma ask Ama, my mother one day. I had pressed my ear against the door, as I was curious to know the answer myself. It’s not that I can’t look into peoples eyes at all, I can, but only for a short duration. Something weird happened after that which scared me, so I’d have to look away. “When a demon re-incarnates as a human being,” She continued “ it is scared that people will discover its dark soul through its eyes. That’s why! She‘s got that awful birthmark as a proof!” She’d dramatically proclaimed. “Get rid of her…she’ll destroy your home otherwise!” She’d warn her.

It all began soon after I started going to school and learned how to hold a pencil properly, and to say “dawing.” I felt drawn to dead creatures. When I saw their little wilted, rotting bodies, I thought it my duty to do something about it, by preserving them in my sketch-book. So I started drawing them quickly before ants could march them away. First insects, then reptiles, rodents and other creatures from my back yard, gradually occupied my sketch book. My parents could not understand why all the creatures I‘d drawn were upside down.

My father, Mr. Tara Sharma, had laughed and proudly remarked “this must be how, new generation sees the world!”

Mother thought it weird but, and snatched my crayons and sketch book, putting it away where I couldn’t reach them. But then I’d find anything I can draw with, such as coal, bricks or pebbles. The walls, the floors and any surface that I thought suitable, would soon fill-up with my amateur drawings of dead creatures, and mother spent most of her time cleaning them. With time however, my drawings were becoming better and clearer, much to her distress, and finally one day, she handed my crayons and my sketch book back to me.

“Please keep them inside. I don‘t want any more of those lifeless things staring at me in the morning” With a pleading look, she’d warned me.

I was twelve, when my grandmother died, around the same time; father had bought me my first canvas. Pawan, my elder brother by two years, had turned green with envy.

“How come that weirdo always gets the nice things from you!” he’d whined.

“Don’t call your sister that!” father had defended me, as always.

“She’s not my sister! She’s a lunatic! She belongs to a madhouse!” he’d scream and stomp away.

Pawan’s hatred for me stemmed during the days when father started to devote extra attention compared to him. Mother had been neglecting me, while grandma could not stand me, since she thought my unusual indulgence as evil. She would scream at me, whenever I tried to enter her room. When I was six, I had once touched her. She was sun bathing, and had dozed off. I could not resist her wrinkled cheek, so I grazed it lightly with my tiny fingers. Slowly she had opened her eyes to my touch,

“Someone! Take the little devil away from my face!” She had yelled, and picked up her stick to strike me with it, when father rushed in and carried me away.

The body had been kept for one night in the house, for distant relatives to pay the last respect. My grandmother’s body was the most fascinating thing I’d ever seen in my life. Eyes and cheeks sucked inside her skull, she rested peacefully with her mouth slightly open, and she looked happy. She had never looked happy before, for she spent most of her time complaining and making faces at the food that my mother prepared.

Grandma did not mind me touching her anymore. I had removed two cotton pieces stuffed inside her nostrils. I wiped her cheeks clean from the vermillion powder that had been sprinkled all over her face, and picked up my new brush, dipped it in the water, color and commenced to fill my new canvas with the colors of death. In the morning, I woke up startled when mother had shrieked. It must’ve been quite a sight, me sleeping beside my dead Granny, holding the portrait of her dead face. Father had liked it though; “This will do.” He’d assured himself after studying it thoroughly, and took it for framing as he did not have any of her recent pictures to display. Unfortunately mother thought differently, and did not allow him to display it to people who came to pay condolence.

“Now I know where she inherited the madness from!” she had exploded. “You’re responsible for all this! You encouraged her! And now you want to display the horrid thing? Do you want to scare away all the relatives?”

Father wasn’t the sort who’d argue much, so he’d cut out Grandma’s picture standing beside my Grandfather. I was told that she was only eighteen then, when she’d gotten married. After a few months, father barged into my room like he normally does.

He said “Chhori,” which literally means daughter. “I must have a painting of myself in my room. Your mother has many pictures and your father, none. Paint me. I’ve some time now.” He slowly picked up the sheet with a mummified rabbit, which I’d gotten from the zoo. It looked as if he was making a great effort not to react, and carefully placed it on the side table and sat himself down in its place.

“But Bua, I don’t know how!” I protested. How could I paint him…When I couldn’t look into his eyes!

“What do you mean you don’t know? Just paint what you see! And stop making silly excuses!” He was determined and I had to come up with a better excuse, even if I had to lie this time. So, I pretended to forage inside my tiny drawer full of colors and said with a regretful look.

“I’m sorry Bua, but I don’t have the right colors.”

“What ! Never heard anything more ridiculous!” He stretched his neck to peep inside my drawer “what are those!”

“I need different colors to paint a live portrait Bua…let me look for them, and I’ll paint you…it may take some time though” I told him, and he finally left, sulking like a little kid. I knew that it was only matter of time before he was going to corner me.

I was an average student throughout my life, and after passing my bachelor degree, I felt no need to waste my time studying. To keep mother from nagging me, I accepted a job as a typist, and tapped away from nine to five. Other times I was searching. I remember the first time I went to Pashupatinath temple. The temple with richly-ornamented pagoda, housed the sacred linga or phallic symbol of Lord Shiva, at the bank of river Bagmati. Pashupatinath is regarded as the most sacred of the lord’s temples in the world, and people get their deceased loved ones here, for cremation.

I traced a place high up in the forest, overlooking the river-bank, where there were benches. People could be seen sitting on the bench and peeping down curiously, observing the cremation rituals at the bank - particularly the non-Hindus, as they are not allowed inside the temple. It was Monday, and women in bright reds, oranges and yellows, were lined up to worship. They fast on this day - married ones for their husbands, and unmarried, to acquire a good husband. Although the line was moving impatiently, but steadily at the beginning, at the opening of the temple, they were trying to climb over each other and screaming;

“Baje!” Brahmins are normally addressed as ‘Baje’ which actually translates to grandfather. “Please take my offering first; I just received a call from home. My baby’s crying for me!” they’d all be wildly handing out a leaf-bowl full of sacred things, such as flowers, fruits, rice and sweetmeat.
“No! No! Please take mine, my husband’s sick and I’ve got to go back and cook his meal!” some other woman screamed.

The Brahmin was trying in vain to sort out the chaos. “Please calm down all. Everyone will get their turn. Lord will not accept your offering this way. This puja is meant to be done peacefully with dedication!” Baje was appealing to the crazed crowd, his bald head soaking wet.

I pitied these women, and secretly vowed that I would never become one of them. My relationship was going to be different with the lord. I proceeded towards the step, that was going to take me to the bank, two flights of stairs away. Men wearing white dhoti were seated, while Sadhus, the holy men, stacked woods. The body had not been laid on the pyre yet. I increased my pace and once I reached, chose a sad man on an impulse. He looked the friendliest of the lot.

“Hello uncle, ” I said politely “ I’m terribly sorry for your loss” He nodded in a friendly way, trying to smile a little, which gave me courage to proceed, “you wouldn’t mind if I paint a portrait of the deceased, would you?” I asked him. The grief stricken man stared at me. “It’s my hobby to paint the portrait of dead people…it will only take a few minutes” I explained, showing him my canvas.

His sad eyes illuminated with I couldn‘t detect what, and he nodded vigorously, gesturing with his hand for me to wait, and walked where others were frowning, supposedly in grief. He then picked up a log of wood lying on the ground and charged at me like an infuriated bull. I had to run for my life. Well, I was barely sixteen then, and naïve enough to believe that some people may appreciate my service. The experience taught me to choose people carefully. Still, each time I approached a bereaving group, it felt like putting my hand inside a lion’s jaw - lucky sometimes and sometimes snap! When I got slapped, beaten up, and pushed into the dirty river. In a country full of narrow minds, it was a strange occupation for a girl, but it had become as important to me as one needed food.

Pashupatinath temple had become an inseparable part of my life. Once I’d dozed off on the bench. It was Saturday afternoon, my day off at work. An old man, with white long beard, probably a caretaker, had poked me with his stick awake.

When I sat up, “Oh! You’re alive!” he exclaimed, surprised. “Don’t make it a habit to sleep out here!” He shouted.

“Why? Last time I checked this place was still a public property” I informed him yawning, trying not to sound too disrespectful.

“Well, don’t come haunting me if you get burned alive, then.”

“Why should I haunt you?”

“Foolish young people like you, come here and commit suicide all the time, and they all haunt me. You’ll too…Foolish! All of them, thinking they‘ll go to heaven if they die here.”

I realized the old man was a bit off, but my groggy head was a bit curious
“Don’t they?” I asked him.

“What!”

“Go to heaven when they die here?”

“Oh lord! What’s wrong with you young people! Taking your own life is a sin! I don’t want any more ghosts here!” He exclaimed waving both his hands in the air, and slowly walked away leaning on his stick, mumbling under his breath.

My parents set their minds on marriage, the day I crossed twenty. According to mother this age was already late for marriage, for a girl. When you’re born as a female in this part of the world, it‘s your destiny to get married. You are considered incomplete without a husband by your side. My parents were positive that it would prove to be the best medicine for my sickness. Slaving for my husband, his family and then his children would occupy most of my time to indulge in any deviant activity. So they’d thought. It might have worked though, but they could not find a single man who’d agree to marry me, in spite of being offered an attractive dowry. Not after I revealed to them about my hobby.

One fateful day, on my twenty sixth birthday, my father died. The only person who was on my side had left me, and I felt like the whole world had seized to exist…and to think just a day before, I had made a portrait of him. Shortly after, Pawan left for USA for computer studies. It was father, who’d stopped him from leaving before, and Mother blamed me for all this; I could tell by the way she looked at me.

Everything seemed to be going wrong in my imperfect little world when I met the man of my dreams… He’d jog by my bench in Pashupati, every evening, where I waited for the bodies, with a canvas by my side. I noticed him sometimes. I wasn’t the sort to notice men before, but after father was gone I’d started to notice him, and even smiled back sometimes. He looked a bit like one my corpses, of a slim build, small round eyes set deep inside his head and his thin lips that he never appeared to shut. Not a typical handsome individual I must admit, but he carried himself with sheer vitality, blowing from his mouth like a steam engine, in a grey tracksuit, that I found appealing. One evening he sat beside me. A cremation was in progress, and the smell of the burnt flesh permeated through the air. A steady humming of a group of women crying, along with the temple-bell ringing in short intervals, could be heard in the background.

“Doesn’t it bother you? The smell?” He spoke casually.

“No… I‘m used to the smell.” I replied trying to sound as casual.

“You look pretty in that” he remarked pointing at the light pink blouse that father had bought me on my last birthday.

I’m sure I was blushing when I said “Thank you”

“Do you always speak like that? ”

“Like what”

“Head bent down?”

I nodded.

“Why?”

“I don’t know… I feel comfortable speaking this way.” I told him.

He stood up. “It was nice talking to you…Have a good evening” he said courteously and jogged off.

The next evening when he sat with me, the scenario was identical to the day before with a cremation in progress, the air smelling the same and me with a disappointed look, except that he smiled this time, and there were nobody crying.

“I’m Deepak by the way” he introduced himself. Although he kept his mouth open most times, it was when he smiled that I noticed his teeth, with a tiny gap right in the middle.

Smiling back, “I’m Ganga” I revealed shyly.

“So…have you decided what you want to paint yet?” he asked, pointing at my canvas.

“They’ve burned my subject” I complained absently and stretched my neck to have a better look at what I suspected, a new group coming out with a body. I stood up urgently and gathered my stuff; my canvas, a low stand-easel, that I had to have specially made, and a small bag full of my painting requirements. “I’ve got to rush” I said and hurried off, leaving him staring behind my back.

Next day and the days after that, for several weeks, he sat with me. I neglected my painting during these days, although I got the canvas along with a new determination everyday to paint. But when I saw him jogging towards me, my determination fell to pieces. We’d talk about different things; actually he did most of the talking while I listened. He lived with his brother and father, and his mother had died three years back. He liked spending his free times hiking and cycling in the hills, and watching Hollywood sci-fi movies. He spoke passionately about his dream of becoming the most successful architect of the country, and the plans he had to improve Nepal‘s drainage system, and so on. Then one day he baffled me by announcing,

“I’ve written poetry for you.”

Honestly, he did not seem the type, and thought it too early for the romantic stuff. I accepted the notebook anyway, and read out softly.

I read the title: “A girl with a blank canvas.” I looked at him. He gestured with his eyes for me to continue.

“I see a girl with a canvas by her side,
I wonder what colors…
Which faces…
Whose emotions…
The blank canvas is deemed to decide.
Her serene eyes are searching every way,
I wonder what desires …
Which dreams…
Whose fates…
She is waiting to seal one day.”

I did not know what to think or to say, when I stared at him, and quickly looked away.

“Well, what do you think?” he seemed eager to find out.

I had no words to answer his question, but managed “It -” I cleared my throat as my voice came out as a croak. “It rhymes well” I told him.

He had laughed. “Is that all you’re going to say? Do you know, that I wrote this poetry a month back? I‘d notice you sitting here every evening with a blank canvas. You had the calmest expression, and yet it looked as if you were searching for something. I expected to see you painting someday, but you never did. I was sitting in my garden one day, thinking of you, and I came up with the poetry. I never did anything like this in my life before…”

I can tell, I thought “I’m flattered.” I said.

“Ganga, please look at me…I want you to look into my eyes just once when you speak. Although it has been weeks since I met you, I feel as if I hardly know you. Please…look at me.” He urged. I wanted to runaway from him at that point. I stood up.

“I should go now. Mother will be waiting for me” I said, and quickly walked away.

That evening at dinner, I could hear mother slurping her dahl and chewing her curried rice with faint chup chups, as usual, and…

“Did you meet someone?” she enquired peering at me.

I stared up front to figure out, how she might’ve known.

“You’ve had that silly grin on your face for some time now…Who’s he?” She demanded.

“I don’t know…his name is Deepak.” I blurted out and she continued with her slurps and chups.

The next evening, I took out an Indian dress, Salwar- Kurta, with large floral print that my father had bought for me. He had suggested spreading it out “Girls must always wear clothes with such bright prints, not the dull ones that you wear!”

Well, I tried it on, wishing that he was there to see me in it. I even put on some lip-gloss with a rosy shade that Bina had gifted me, and stared at the mirror, but the purpose of this rare act, was lost as my mind got diverted elsewhere. I looked at my reflection, and began marveling at a thought. I gazed at my corpse in the mirror, wondering if I should draw a self portrait, because nobody will draw me when I die…then I dismissed the idea. I was certain that someone will burn all my paintings with me, so what‘s the point. I changed back to my comfy dull outfit, and wiped the gloss off my lips.

That evening first I visited my friend Bina. She was my only friend by the way, and I was hers. She lived just three houses away from mine. During the early phase of our friendship, Bina’s parents had not liked my visiting her so often, obviously because of my reputation, but gradually they’d begun to tolerate me. They probably had to come to terms with themselves, keeping in mind their daughter’s special condition. I told her about him.

“Don’t tell him yet” she’d advised me.

“He’ll find out sooner or later, so why lie?”

“I’m not asking you to lie, just don’t tell him unless he specifically asks you. Let him get to know you first, and maybe he‘d be willing to overlook the…the minor flaw in your-”

“A flaw!” I was outraged.

“I’m sorry. I did not mean it. What I mean is… a minor-”

“Flaw it is! Now I know what my best friend thinks of me! I stormed out of her room, then out of her house, where she was calling after me “Ganga! Ganga! Please come back!” helplessly in her wheelchair.

Outside I could smell the rain in the air. I stared at the clouds and knew it wasn’t going to rain much. I’m usually right about such things. Bina would call me on cloudy days, as if I was her personal weather forecaster, to ask if she should carry an umbrella or not. I took off my shoes outside the temple, paid two rupees to a boy to look after them, washed my hands and feet, and went inside the enormous brass gate. I walked through a crowd of women in queue, waiting anxiously for their turn to worship. I walked up the stairs, and just then it began to drizzle. I walked across the bridge and towards the forest. He stood up when he saw me. His grey suite matched the weather, and as I closed in, I noticed rain drops slowly forming on his forehead before trickling down through his smooth oily dark skin, on his suite.

“You’re late” he smiled.

“I went to see a friend.” I informed him.

“Boy friend?” He wanted to know. My cheeks felt hot, when I looked down and shook my head.

“May I ask, why a pretty girl like you still single?”

“They couldn’t find anybody who wanted me.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m different from other girls”

He looked at the scar on my neck- a brownish long scar that stretches from collar bone to my jaw line. It’s my birthmark that some people violently reacted to.

“It’s not so bad…” he said.

“I did not mean this.” I elucidated touching my scar. “I paint dead people’s portrait…That’s why I wait here every day with a blank canvas. I wait for the body to arrive, and once it does, I rush at the bank. If the body belongs to the poor to middle class people, I bribe them for my purpose…” I looked in his eyes, for the first time and revealed “And this is what I’ve been doing for past eleven years.” There was a deathly silence…I waited for him to respond, and when he didn’t, I walked away slowly.

The next evening I did not expect to see him. It was time to get on with my job. I saw a group of people coming out with a body, and rushed to the site. It was a poor group that evening. I could tell by the quality of wood they had gathered; partly devoured by termites, and they’ve chosen a Brahmin from the temple, as did the people who can’t afford their own. This however did not mean that it was my lucky day. Not yet. I carefully surveyed the situation analyzing my chances, then approached a middle aged man in a traditional Newari attire, called Daura Suruwal of black and grey combination.

“Do you mind if I paint the dead?” I asked him. Direct approach worked best for me.

“What for!” he demanded aghast - the more dramatic the reaction, more chances there was for me to paint. It’s the quiet ones, I’d learned to flee, with a quick “I’m sorry. I was just joking” or “sorry; this obviously is not the right time”

“It’s my hobby” I informed the Newari man, confidently.

He seemed to be considering my offer and a glint of greed appeared in his eyes “How much is it worth?” he asked me.

“I don’t sell it, so I don’t know. Take this” I offered him a hundred.

He pocketed it quickly and said “Its too little”

“I don’t have anymore”

He stared at me thoughtfully, then “Alright. Be quick.” he said.

I rushed to where the body was laid, sat down, and positioned my easel. I prepared the water color in the mixing palate and began my strokes.

The days I don‘t feel so confident, or when I don’t have money, I head towards the old age home, of Pashupati. A place where old people waited to die, securing their seats in the heaven. With time, they’d grown accustomed to my visits, and I started to feel at home there. When someone over there died, I painted, and a group of the live ones crowded behind me, observing keenly and offering suggestions;

“Why don’t you make her look a little younger? Her soul will bless you.” or,

“Put a smile on his face, we’re tiered of that grumpy look!” or

“Why do you use the same kind of colors for all your paintings? Try pink.”

Other times I listened to their stories over a cup of tea or sometimes over an early dinner. Stories of atrocities committed on them by their own children, of tragedies that swept away their family and tales of bitter experiences when Maoists abducted their old-age support system, their kids, to include them in their army. I offered them money once, but Bhanu - the stinker as they all called him on his back, had pointed to a huge pile of clothes lying at a corner of their filthy room, and said, “Wash that pile of dirty clothes instead.” I thought it was a joke and stared at the pile. “You want to help us or not?” he demanded. He’d spread out both his shaky hands with red swollen up knuckles for me to see. “Look, what the wretched cold water did to my hands.”

That was how it all started and soon I received phone calls! It was always old man Bhatt at the other end, he being the only person, who did not get lost while dialing my cell phone number.

“The stinker Bhanu’s going…are you coming immediately, or shall I have the authorities pick him up” It took a while for me to get used to his brash way of speaking. I would rush under my mother’s wrathful glare. Once I’d finished painting, I was ushered towards an enormous mountain of stinking clothes to be washed, with “did you bring the soap? Bhanu asked you to get one. Didn’t he?” The other time it was a monstrous pile of dirty dishes, with “we celebrated Janaki’s passing away…that’s our new resolution. No more grieving. We‘ve done that enough!” Can you believe it? I must admit, there were times, when I got pretty frustrated with the old lot, and their new eccentricities, but then I had not many choices.

I missed Deepak, and my eyes looked out for him often. I hoped to see his tall figure jogging towards me – the sight that had made my heart beat faster. The only man, who’d brought a ray of bright color hope, like a glimmer of early morning sunlight, amidst the grey shades of death. There were times when I had hard time focusing in my work. I had to keep reminding myself that I had missed my work more during the days, when I had given it up for him, than I had missed him. One evening I finished the painting at the bank. I had carefully packed my things and had turned to go. Deepak was standing behind me. He might’ve watched every move I‘d made. I could not read his expression, when he asked me in his casual manner.

“Could we walk together for a while?”

I nodded and followed him. We walked silently for a long time. A lump was building up in my throat…and then I was asked the question.

“Ganga, do you think you can give up all this, for me?”

“No.” I replied simply, and walked the opposite direction, allowing the tears to escape down my cheeks, in silence. He did not try to stop me.

“Why don’t you invite Deepak for dinner tomorrow?” Mother suggested at dinner that evening.

I shook my head “He won’t come.”

“Why not! Take me with you. I’ll invite him.” She insisted.

“He won’t come.”

Her face dropped. “Did you tell him?”

“I don’t have to. He saw me.” I lied.

Then one day out of the blue my mother told me about a Psychiatrist.

“This is a rare opportunity.” She’d stated businesslike. “I will never forgive you if you let it pass…please if you care for me at all!” She’d ended up pleading.

He was a world renowned psychiatrist from London, who had come to Nepal on a workshop. I liked the way Mr. Patrick talked to me. I don’t know why, but I felt very comfortable with him. Perhaps it was the lack of any emotional attachment. He had looked at me dispassionately and said;

“If you were abroad, things would’ve been different for you. You could’ve made a living doing this, did you know that?” He’d predicted approvingly looking at one my work that he’d asked me to bring along. “But here?” he shook his head.

I went through the tedious routine of sitting on a rather large brown couch that almost engulfed me, and being asked several questions, some of which were from my childhood days. vI answered them in the same monotonous way that they were asked.

“What do you experience when you’re painting?” He had asked during one these sessions, with a pen and a pad ready.

I looked at him blankly, unable to remember.

“Do you feel happy, sad, restless-” he’d prompted.

“I feel restless when I don’t get to paint.” I interrupted “And when I do, I feel that I’ve fulfilled my duty.”

He wrote something on the pad and asked without looking up.
“What do you mean by duty?”

“I think that dead deserve to be remembered as they are. When they are alive, we praise their beauty, write poetry about them and when they die, we refuse to accept their appearance and get rid of them as quickly as possible. Why?” Mr. Patrick looked up from his writing, he did not have any answer. So, I continued “When I see a dead face, I see god’s art in it – the sins we commit, all the maliciousness, desires, greed, they get washed away by death. What remains is pure, the actual beauty…I only try to capture that beauty in my canvas, so I can preserve god’s art. I believe that he chose me for this purpose.”

It had been the first time I got carried away in explaining my purpose to someone. Mr. Patrick looked moved by my speech, but in the end he had nothing much to say about it, except;

“I want you to draw an insect like you did in your childhood. But the right way round. That’s your homework, and I’ll see you tomorrow with the drawing.”

The next day doctor was staring at my drawing of an ant; it was the right way round as he had ordered, but it looked like an ant that had been fossilized inside ice. I was then showed different images of animals;

“What goes through your, mind when you see this?” He’d asked me, holding a picture of a rat.

“It’s a rat.” I told him.

“I know that. I want to know more about your sentiments when you see it, what goes inside your head. For example, when I see this picture, I think of rat poison. Rodents are pests and they create a nuisance in the house.”

“Mm…I’m thinking…what colors I’ll require…Once it’s dead”

“Good. We’re making progress.” He said and scribbled something down.

And this continued for several days with bug, bee, and random objects like flowers, chair, plates and some weird shapes. At the end of each session, I was given a printed sheet, where I had to tick and compare my desire to paint, to my family. Filling out the same sheet ended every single meeting. My intelligence failed me to understand how these mindless activities, were supposed to help me. I found myself wondering often during the sessions, if it was Mr. Patrick who needed a psychiatrist. But then I changed my mind, when gradually life started to appear in my homework!

On the last day, he said “I wish I could spend some more time with you…unfortunately, I’ve got to go tomorrow. But I want to see you one last time tomorrow morning. And I want you to paint. Bring your canvas along.” He’d suggested enthusiastically.

In the morning he’d declared. “From today, you’re going to paint live people instead of dead ones. And you’ll start with me!”

I only did what came to me naturally, mixing the colors and transforming my blank canvas to a vivid form. What happened after this was the final straw before my mother took the drastic step. Mr. Patrick took one look at the painting and turned pale, and then he dropped on the floor. He stopped breathing. Doctors could not determine the cause of death. I realized at that point what took my father’s life. He’d also tuned pale having looked at his portrait that I’d made.

“Chhori, I’m not feeling too good…I think I’ll go and rest” He’d spoken glumly and went to bed, never to wake up again. My mother had been right. I was responsible for his death. Tiny detail I’d forgotten to mention to Mr. Patrick during my therapy, was when I looked into people’s eyes for long, I see their corpse.

End