It was a fine day of spring when the wind blew as it always has been. The sun stood at the sentinel as the trees swayed frantically in revelry only to subvert what the wind whispered to them, what it knew about the frail, senile creature who had ineptly occupied a small bench under the tree, eyes void of all emotions and his face bland. He had been a new entry at the asylum, accosted with a couple of more such joy hearts, about whom people knew just a too little. Infact, they were considered too bawdy to be cared for. But the wind knew more. As it blew past his cryptic eyes, percolating his slack beard, it tried to surmise the cause of his detonation...
It had seen him as a jovial man, in mid-thirties, and at the pinnacle of his career, where the aura of his persona mused all those who met him. It had seen veneration in the eyes of those who read his poetry and extolled on his impeccable “work” of art. The skill to proliferate the simplest of human emotions to a diadem has been his forte. Life had been considerably fair to him and had honed out an artist who was revered for his immaculate skills. He never married for he preferred to be alone with his thought, his art!
It was his love, it was his life.
..and then the day arrived. The day that whisked off the debacle of his skills, mooting his art, pulverizing his retinue…
One day as he was dawdling to his way back home, the idea of writing a testimony to self alluded him. He smirked at the idea of parleying his grandeur (hitherto) to words that world would read and the thoughts of siring his life to a meaningful work of art enthused his spirits. But fate had a very simple stratagem to jostle his canopy and more importantly, shock his art he so profusely trusted and banked upon.
Charu Agarwal
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