Paint Me A Picture
What does it mean, to hurt?
She knew it, had read about it, experienced it with causes as varied as one's life presents, and understood it insofar as her comprehension had depth. She knew it, as a feeling. However, that her prudence, morality, creativity, insight, rationality, predilections, empathy, verily her soul owed themselves to a deep-seated, poignant hurt, registered that tumultuous afternoon of an ambushed reunion with her father.
In a world of independence, individualism, nonconformity, and ambition, the institution of the family had mutated to propaganda rather than a bedrock of human society. Her mother had chosen to separate from her father, immensely dissatisfied with the state of her marriage. She found her husband insufferable, and despite several attempts from him, her parents and even their marriage counsellor of brokering peace and creating a fresh start, she was inconsolable. The discord ran so deep in her that she successfully convinced the court of law to isolate herself from her husband. In a final blow, as they walked out of the courtroom, she revealed to him that she was pregnant with his daughter, and he would never see her, let alone know her.
A failed marriage is seldom as hard as a failed relationship with your daughter. She hadn't even arrived in this world yet, and already he had been banished from her life. Shocked that she was capable of such cruelty, he rued the day he confided in her, a childhood dream from his orphan upbringing, of raising a daughter one day. He had given up on his marriage in the days leading to the courtroom, however, after this revelation, he resolved to defy all odds and in some way be a part of his daughter's life. Owing to his good relations with his parents - in - law, he kept himself apprised of his daughter's life and occasionally, also sent her gifts. This arrangement went on without suspicion from his wife to his relief, for twenty-five years.
She came into this world, to absent arms of a mother and an estranged father. Fortunately, her grandparents had stepped up to the job, making sure she never felt a lack of love, care and support, even in this broken family she was brought into. And then there was this kind but unnamed distant relative, who'd send her gifts from time to time, delivered to her by them. On her fifth birthday, she received a painting kit from him and that changed her life. Since she was developing into a shy child who always struggled with words in conveying the gamut of emotions she felt, art and painting gave her a medium to communicate. She was fascinated with how the boldness of lines, the sharpness of figures, the plays of light on objects, the shadows and highlights, the colours and whitespaces could enable her to 'speak' her mind, but shrewdly enough so that only inquisitive and perceptive minds could really 'listen'. By the time she entered a formal art school, she already had amassed a decent following online on her blog. What people found most fascinating was her perspective on seemingly inconsequential objects from everyday life - nothing was immaterial to be her subject. With time she even developed a unique style, where one avid follower pointed out that there was always a hint of a hazy hooded figure, somewhere in the background, as though watching the viewer as the viewer watched the prime subjects in the landscape. When questioned about it, she explained that it came from a place she never fully understood, some unprocessed emotion in her psyche which was a constant however not a haunting presence. Her grandparents were her biggest fans though, cliched as it may sound.
It came then as a crushing blow when she was twenty-five, her professional career had just taken off, and the two people she owed it all to, were snatched from her in a drunken driving accident. They were her north star and suddenly she felt unmoored. The only happy remnants of her childhood now were her sketches, drawings, and gifts from that relative who she hoped to see at her grandparents' wake. It was a small service as they had always lived quiet and peaceful lives, never travelling far. Just a few close friends showed up to pay their respects. As she stood by the casket, scanning the crowd, she caught the eyes of a man smiling at her from far away at the doorstep. Involuntarily, she found herself ambling towards him as if her heart already knew who he was. Eventually, as she drew up close, she even started noticing the resemblance in their appearance. When finally standing a foot apart from him, she forgot all sense of decorum as she took a long hard piercing look at his face, which now exhibited a melancholy smile and also a sense of longing she had never seen before. In a tremendous jolt, it came to her - the unprocessed emotion in her psyche, the hooded figure at the back of her paintings, the anonymous relative responsible for this path that she took in life. Her eyes roved incredulously all over him and suddenly stopped at his hands - he was holding a box of full of letters and sketches from her childhood, which she used to write in reply of every gift received from the known stranger. Any further proof was unneeded -
"Dad?"
"Yes dear! I've missed your drawings. Paint me a picture?"
What does it mean, to heal?
She knew it, had read about it, experienced it with causes as varied as one's life presents, and understood it insofar as her comprehension had depth. She knew it, as a feeling. However, that her prudence, morality, creativity, insight, rationality, predilections, empathy, verily her soul owed themselves to a deep-seated, poignant hurt, registered that tumultuous afternoon of an ambushed reunion with her father.
In a world of independence, individualism, nonconformity, and ambition, the institution of the family had mutated to propaganda rather than a bedrock of human society. Her mother had chosen to separate from her father, immensely dissatisfied with the state of her marriage. She found her husband insufferable, and despite several attempts from him, her parents and even their marriage counsellor of brokering peace and creating a fresh start, she was inconsolable. The discord ran so deep in her that she successfully convinced the court of law to isolate herself from her husband. In a final blow, as they walked out of the courtroom, she revealed to him that she was pregnant with his daughter, and he would never see her, let alone know her.
A failed marriage is seldom as hard as a failed relationship with your daughter. She hadn't even arrived in this world yet, and already he had been banished from her life. Shocked that she was capable of such cruelty, he rued the day he confided in her, a childhood dream from his orphan upbringing, of raising a daughter one day. He had given up on his marriage in the days leading to the courtroom, however, after this revelation, he resolved to defy all odds and in some way be a part of his daughter's life. Owing to his good relations with his parents - in - law, he kept himself apprised of his daughter's life and occasionally, also sent her gifts. This arrangement went on without suspicion from his wife to his relief, for twenty-five years.
She came into this world, to absent arms of a mother and an estranged father. Fortunately, her grandparents had stepped up to the job, making sure she never felt a lack of love, care and support, even in this broken family she was brought into. And then there was this kind but unnamed distant relative, who'd send her gifts from time to time, delivered to her by them. On her fifth birthday, she received a painting kit from him and that changed her life. Since she was developing into a shy child who always struggled with words in conveying the gamut of emotions she felt, art and painting gave her a medium to communicate. She was fascinated with how the boldness of lines, the sharpness of figures, the plays of light on objects, the shadows and highlights, the colours and whitespaces could enable her to 'speak' her mind, but shrewdly enough so that only inquisitive and perceptive minds could really 'listen'. By the time she entered a formal art school, she already had amassed a decent following online on her blog. What people found most fascinating was her perspective on seemingly inconsequential objects from everyday life - nothing was immaterial to be her subject. With time she even developed a unique style, where one avid follower pointed out that there was always a hint of a hazy hooded figure, somewhere in the background, as though watching the viewer as the viewer watched the prime subjects in the landscape. When questioned about it, she explained that it came from a place she never fully understood, some unprocessed emotion in her psyche which was a constant however not a haunting presence. Her grandparents were her biggest fans though, cliched as it may sound.
It came then as a crushing blow when she was twenty-five, her professional career had just taken off, and the two people she owed it all to, were snatched from her in a drunken driving accident. They were her north star and suddenly she felt unmoored. The only happy remnants of her childhood now were her sketches, drawings, and gifts from that relative who she hoped to see at her grandparents' wake. It was a small service as they had always lived quiet and peaceful lives, never travelling far. Just a few close friends showed up to pay their respects. As she stood by the casket, scanning the crowd, she caught the eyes of a man smiling at her from far away at the doorstep. Involuntarily, she found herself ambling towards him as if her heart already knew who he was. Eventually, as she drew up close, she even started noticing the resemblance in their appearance. When finally standing a foot apart from him, she forgot all sense of decorum as she took a long hard piercing look at his face, which now exhibited a melancholy smile and also a sense of longing she had never seen before. In a tremendous jolt, it came to her - the unprocessed emotion in her psyche, the hooded figure at the back of her paintings, the anonymous relative responsible for this path that she took in life. Her eyes roved incredulously all over him and suddenly stopped at his hands - he was holding a box of full of letters and sketches from her childhood, which she used to write in reply of every gift received from the known stranger. Any further proof was unneeded -
"Dad?"
"Yes dear! I've missed your drawings. Paint me a picture?"
What does it mean, to heal?
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