The Masked Painter

K Radhakumar

Reality disturbs me.
Never have I been so deeply disturbed before…
I don’t know why it does now.
Maybe I am getting old,
Maybe it is the turbulent times we live in.

I always wake to my morning.
My morning!
There she stands,
Feeling deeply wronged,
By the long sleepless night.
Her drunkard of a husband
Wakes up from a terrible hangover;
The hot and noisy morning has to take
The blame for everything.
He takes a long drink of water
And then tries to sleep off the hangover.

Why do I always wake to my morning
But never to the real morning
Uncontaminated like a glass of water in the sunshine?
What, pray, is the meaning of this –
I always wake to my morning
But never to the real one?
I feel I am a prism
A solid geometrical figure
Into the making of which goes
My education, my culture, my mind, my everything…
Everything passes through this checkpoint;
He is a good friend
And once you pass him in the street,
He will say hello.
The prism sees a tree
Draws it and colour.
I see myself through this prism
I see the world through this prism
And there is no mistake.
The real morning will smile with the rising sun
When I am dead and gone.

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