"I have always been an art looking for an artist to paint me"
She was a love child of oil stained canvases and spilling ink.
She found her vision in a blur,
a blur of lesser dinner plates on the table and more picture frames on the wall.
She confessed to gunshots on burnt shops and bloodstains on haunted lanes,
that the intruders were disguised as a summer Sun...blinding them in forever eclipse.
She mistook hanging bodies for threads that weaved a tapestry of revolution.
Barefoot they walked,
through salt streams and rocks,
to find a way back home, one they lost years ago,
years ago when all the voices were shut.
How many times did she hold her pen or brush because she couldn't catch hold of a trigger?
Maybe for a 200 years or more.
A flawed atomic theory was what they called it or politely "20th Century Abstract"
But the chaos gave birth to stars drawn around bullet marks.
A voice was what they shot in the sky, in the name of unheard screams written on tattered sheets in bold capital letters.
She created...not a piece of paper with sketch lines, smudged carbon or pretty colours.
She created volumes, a piece of land which was hers,
She splattered the time and blended the pain in.
Of all those years when radios were trembling, and colours were make believe...
When black was villainized and white was tainted,
when every child dreamt of running away to somewhere where the sky was BLUE, the clouds were WHITE, the land was GREEN and SAFFRON was the colour of bliss.
The world is still on fire,
but she's more than a candle light march,
She's a clay diya lighting up the darkest of nights,
she's chaos in the name of artwork,
not a thousand words written by men sitting on velvet couches looking for damsels in distress.
She's a museum of scars and riots.
She is an artist, painting herself.
"Invention is what I call it. I mold it into the shape of a blazing sun and launch it to the sky... I feel it in my bones and see it with my eye"
- the theatre everyone forgot about.

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