A Childhood’s disambiguation

Written by rahul dash

August 14, 2008

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There was this child
who loved to paint trees with flowers,
till one night his father saw
his child love the wild so raw,
“what’s wrong with you ?” he, like spalding gray
explained the child that that was no way
to paint flowers, no not a chance
no woman would ever give him a glance
and then there was the ‘people’ too
his friends, his friends, their friends
who,
would never let the dust on this stay
so the boy stopped caring about the flowers from that day

And so remained a child
who loved to paint trees without detail
till once he saw an art teacher
who raised his brow at the work
“no chance you stand, or ever stood”
lest you put some life, in a human hood
perplexed the child put people where
once he drew trees with more to care
so people replaced their feelings at once
the child learnt to give nature nothing but a glance

There now remained a child
who painted to learn, who loved so to earn
his drawings had to run so fast
his people needed to be of a certain type
their shadows had no place to be cast
the pencil had to move once to the left
then only to the right,
when women arrived
his brush had to touch with rythmic motion
and dots had to join the lines deprived

The child saw then his peers gallow
some got a car some got a girl
that shone more
and made lesser noise,
some cast a spell of paper
to lure the evanescent curl, but he
began to sit away and think about his future
his father his teacher spooned on him,
his soul craved a preacher,

friends now talked, women glee
money now spoke, we
spoke for money
and there, right in the middle, stood what was once a child
and once had loved to draw the flower on a tree

the world had told the child all that he can
do,

and so remained the child…no wait,
now he was a man,
too.

-Rahul Dash

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