I can Paint

              “This hasn’t come out right. You could have chosen better colors. I am sure that you can do better.”

         These honest comments were affecting my confidence now. I had been painting ever since I was a child and had always wanted to excel. You can say that it was my passion. My parents were forever encouraging and claimed to love the masterpieces I created. However, when shown to less prejudiced viewers, things were not so rosy.

         Being an only child of my parents, I felt rather lonely. During the painful time of rejection, I had no one who, I thought, could understand me. So I turned to the passive listener, my diary.

         “Why can’t they be honest? Why do they have to lie?” I would write when a work appreciated by my parents was rejected by some society holding a competition.

         In spite of frequent rejections, I did not give up. Probably because my parents displayed so much confidence in me. Becoming a professional painter was my dream and I was not going to let go of it easily. It was difficult but I was sure I had it in me.

         I noted down the ideas for paintings in my diary, describing them in minutest details. There, I felt, they were safe and I would not forget any of them. Then, I tried to paint them. At times, I was able to judge that a painting was worthless and at other times, I confidently sent it to a contest.

         One day, I received a letter from the manager of an art gallery.

              “We are holding a painting competition to promote teenage artists. Please send us some of your best paintings and let us see how it goes.” wrote the manager, who had, in the past, rejected a lot of my works.

         At last, it seemed that my prayers were answered. Three of my paintings were selected to be displayed in the competition. The art competition was to be held two weeks later on a Sunday and I had to be there to explain my canvases to the visiting artists.

         I could not wait. I danced around the house to my parents' delight. For a change, during that time, my parents and my diary got to see a cheerful me. Atleast to my diary, I was sure, I could express what I felt without being judged.

         The day finally arrived. I dressed up in my finest clothes and reached the gallery before time. I was sure I would finally make it. Seeing my paintings on the wall made me hold my head a bit higher.

                Slowly, people started pouring in. They moved from one painting to another taking some notes or making some comment or the other. My heartbeat almost stopped when they approached my paintings. I could imagine them laughing out loud on seeing my favorite work. But they did not. They just smiled and moved on. They did not take down notes or make any comments about the paintings. I hated it. I could have tolerated anything. Even a snide comment. But not their indifference.

                Group after group passed by without taking much notice of my life-time of hard work, hanging lifelessly on the colorless walls. With every passing minute, I felt myself growing smaller.

                At last, the terrible evening ended and the awards were distributed. My canvases did not get even a special mention. I could not take it any longer and rushed out.

              I was disillusioned. I knew I could not do better and I had tried my level best. My diary bore the brunt of this and saw a pessimistic outpour that it had never seen before.

              “I am a loser. Nothing can ever go right for me. I cannot paint and I never will. The painter in me has died.”, I wrote. 

              That night, I cried myself to sleep.

              The next morning brought a bigger shock. I could not locate my best friend, my diary, anywhere. It was nowhere to be found. For the first time in my life, I felt all alone. The diary had been my friend ever since I could remember and I seemed to have lost that too. Things could not get any worse.

              In a few days, however, I got over the rejection and the loss of my friend. Life goes on and mine did, too.

              Then, one day, I received a parcel from the manager of the art gallery. I opened it eagerly and, to my surprise, found my diary and a small note.

              The manager wrote, “Your mother was concerned and sent your diary to me so that I could figure out that you feel really discouraged, and how desperately you want to be a painter. Who says you can’t paint? Read your diary once and look at the beautiful pictures you have painted with your words. You don’t need colors or a brush to paint. You can paint well with your pen.”

              Today, when I look behind, the moment that I cherish the most in my life is when I realized that I can paint. Though the brush, canvas, and colors are still my passion, I use my pen most often.