Portrait

The evening was trying hard to change the color of sky from harsh yellow to its own soothing light blue.

And Aha! It succeeded. I stopped to look at the crowd gathered. Sukhna Lake’s water was filling music to my ears. I somehow got myself released from its melody. In the evening, a magical spell overcomes the lake that makes you feel calm and relaxed. And if you want to cast your attention on other things then you have to get rid of the spell. You ought to see it to believe it.I entered the crowd. The one eyed Sardar was busy painting portraits. The painter was trying hard to work undisturbed. Comments were leaking in from the crowd.“He’s not so handsome for a portrait.”“Can the painter see?”“Look! He has only one eye.”“Are his hands steady?”“What happened to his eye?”The commenting was not influencing the one eyed old painter. He was so engrossed in his work that he seemed deaf to the comments. He looked up and down, up and down and his hands moved on the canvas. I stood in the crowd watching the painter work.

Then he paused to look at the man’s face for a quite long time and gave touches to his piece.Aha! It was ready. He showed it to the man. The man’s face threw a proud look as if saying, “How handsome I am?”The man stood up, fished out his wallet, and gave hundred bucks to the painter. He accepted it with gratitude. The crowd took a final look at the portrait.“Not bad.”“Good work by an old one.”“He’s fantastic.”A few frowned, a few took sighs, a few clapped and a few smiled. Then all of them did the same thing, they dispersed. Dispersed to their lives.Only I stood there. The old-painter looked at me.“You want a portrait done?” he asked.I observed his face for the first time. The black turban, gray brows, one eye fully white, the other one showed signs of life and the white flowing beard on the lined face gave a look of many years lived with happiness or sadness I could not figure out. Nevertheless, they were lived.Then my wife patted on my back interrupting my view. She had busied her hands with balloons and soft toys. She loves them. Sometimes my house looks like a gift shop but she has meagre demands so her fondness for balloons and soft toys has to be met.“Let’s go,” she asked.She caught my gaze still at the old painter.“You want one,” she inquired.“Nah..! Let’s go home.”She tried to hold my hand. But my hands were filled with her balloons and soft toys. I walked with her. My ears were now tuned to her talk than to the lake’s soft music. And my head turned itself back often to see my old one eyed painter who sat idle waiting for a portrait.