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Poems . 
The Artist
by Kumud Biswas

In my old tattered notebook
In my off time I draw pictures
Of whatever comes to my mind
But my Bankim uncle tells me
He doesn't understand
All of them are absolute rubbish.

I tell him
Look, here is the bear
Here is the face of a black monkey
The red horse you see there
Will draw the chariot of the prince
When in the morning
He will leave for the forest of Dandak.
What you see so high is a hill
On its slopes
Those stubs are bamboo clumps
Where lions live
The river flows here winding
A boat I have drawn goes floating
Along its bank
A ploughman is walking
Having drawn water from the river
Those three girls are cooking
For the feast of lord Shiva.
That stretch of clean white paper
Is the beach totally bare
Only two swans are sitting
Nothing else is there
The circle I have drawn here
Isn't it the sun?
Those lines are but clouds
The patch I have smeared black
Is the darkness of evening.
To me everything is so clear -
That sal grove high and low
And the fishes playing in the water.

'Can everybody appreciate paintings?
There is something wrong
In the eyes of your uncle',
So says father. 

Transcreation of the poem - Chhabi-ankiye - from the collection Bichitra by Rabindranath Tagore.

Image under license with GettyImages.com

16-Jul-2006
 
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