A pewit is titt---titt telling the clouds---listen- the painter is no more, she is peeping into the burrow under the tree roots and telling the snake --- "Look.. Do you know.. The Painter has gone for ever." Now she sat on the branch and started talking to herself-"See, he has gone, without telling me, but how come I did not know his going away?" 

"What are you talking about? Painter? How come?" Agnishekhar is very sad in Jammu.
"Oh madam, it is very sad news" technical team of Kritya is downhearted. 
"Good people go before their time, but before leaving they give so much love that you cannot forget them." Roger Humes is online from California. 

The clouds dropped a few tears, the snake lowered its hood; the branch of the tree broke a little. The pewit is now quite... thch..... thch.....

Who is the painter, what is his relation to so many people? Why is his departure so touching for these people? 

He was a painter; no doubt, do not know how many painters there are in this world. Why are the people so sad? Pewit is not able to speak... thich ..thich... 

He was a painter, no doubt. He was painting silently, without any expectation. .. Used to send paintings after every third or fourth month. His paintings helped the poet to understand her own poetry. His duty seemed to end the minute he sent the paintings; he never talked about them again and never demanded any thing,... his paintings were accompanied by small letters... this line of your poem reminds me of that line of Pablo Neruda... or a bird came and sat on my table, when I was painting.... or it is 2 am and a cow is standing at my door etc. I never understood what relation he had with Pablo, bird and cow..... And the poet for whom he is painting... Who knows and who wants to know. How come a village man talks about Pablo Neruda, sometimes a question arises in my mind. 


His paintings always started with a circle and melted in eternity... maybe like him... who was living in a small town but reached from Jammu to California through his paintings. 

A number of painters are there in this world, who can make their life as colourful as their own canvas, but this painter had very dull shades... the colour of dirt or dusk... there was no greenery in his paintings... a few people might have known him but whoever saw his painting ended up being sad for at least one day. 

His paintings never became the part of any big exhibitions ... his paintings never got a place in big palaces... but only hung on someone's wall ... or was kept packed in a big cover... without any complaint. But when he is gone, every one is sad... from Kashmir to California. 

A dusty evening in Dhamatari, a difficult kavi sammelan just after rain and thunder... a man came to meet me after poetry reading. I like your poems, I always read them, and I am a painter... Your poems talk to me, I want to paint them... I never took the effort of considering those words seriously ... I never thought of looking at him carefully...actually I did not see the sincerity in those words.

But the painter sent paintings. A parcel reached home with 4 paintings after 2-3 months. My home became colourful. My daughter emptied the wall to make room for the paintings ... My husband framed the paintings and thus we all became friends of the painter. I wrote to him-"Everyone at my home like your paintings ... We have given them a place on our wall." The painter was so happy that he sent 2 more paintings. Now sending paintings became his habit, he also started quoting my poems on them. When it was raining he sent only letters, as it was difficult for paintings to get dry during the rainy season. Slowly we started forgetting to send letters to each other. But any one who visited our home was shown those paintings. Every one of our guests became quite attached to the painter unknowingly. 

Did we think of the painter? No, we always spent our thoughts on the paintings. We all knew that the name of the painter was Prabhakar, he lived in Dhamatari... And he painted... that was all. We did not know how he earned his livelihood, how many members there were in his family etc. The last one and half year passed without any communication... neither did he send me letters or paintings nor did I write to him... meanwhile the idea of Kritya came to my mind... I thought of Prabhakar... and his paintings. I wanted to write to him-now you are an international painter, friend. I send him a letter telling him about Kritya and forgot all about it as there was no time to think about all these. 

Prabhakar did not reply, a doubt entered my mind... I asked him again.. What happened friend.... are you angry... Prabhakar was really angry. He was complaining....see I made your walls colorful but you could not hang even black lines on my walls. 
Kritya is online, Prabhakar is still quiet.. friends are praising his paintings... and a postcard is there in my post box with broken words. Didi.. Prabhakar sir is no more.. he has left us... 

The Pewit started talking tithchh..titchhh.. she went to a frog... went to the puddle.. went to the pond..... and went to the sea... and drowned in the sea...titch ..titch....titchhhhh.


These lines are written on the sea.. 

1

These letters are not
as well made as 
his paintings.

But this picture of him
as seen in these letters
is not less beautiful
than his paintings.


2

He has written:
I am writing a letter to you
at 2 a.m, and 
a cow is standing 
at my door

I could not understand
why a cow should come to his door
at 2 a.m , when
he was writing a letter to me

I want to meet the cow
who has seen him writing a letter 
in my name

I want to kiss those eyes
which have a picture of those fingers
which were writing a letter to me
words resisting those fingers

And for the love hidden in those words? 


3

Every morning a bird 
comes and sits on my table
looks carefully at the paintings I make
then takes one of them in her beak
flies away in the sky
then my painting gets the blue colour; 
when she sits on the branch of a lush green tree
my painting gains the green colour:
the painter had written to me once

But your paintings have
brown, black and grey colour, O painter friend
I asked him back

how long can a bird keep flying in the sky
she has to come back to the earth to get her feed

And the colour of hunger is 
always black, brown or grey:
the painter told me

4 

The tree 
in front of my window is very quiet
today
very quiet are the birds

very sad are the paintings 
hanging on my wall
the red hot spheres also 
have grown very calm

he wrote to me
I like rain very much
I will come to you 
to get wet 

In this rainy season
the painter came quietly
and
hung on my wall
as his own painting

The pewit is now quiet......

Rati Saxena.