By Aayushi Rawat
Paint daubs splashed across sheets—
Some bizarre, some sweet
This is your typical art therapy workshop
On a lazy Sunday morning in Humayun's tomb.
And Oh, I’m no Monet.
Neither Pablo Picasso.
But maybe a soon-to-be Pablo Escobar—
Who knows?
A sweet voice lingers in my ear
It’s the old man
Counting his days like grains of sandglass
And so he asks: “What’s up with you?”
This is my last Picasso moment, for all I know
The mountains are calling
And oh, I’d leave— never to return
Like Qais Bhatt in a psychedelic trance.
He laughs:
“Okay my Laila, but where’s your Majnu?”
“Life is your oyster,” is what he says
I smile like an idiot
Hiding away my silent scars—
the ones you don’t paint in mauve.
He let out a sigh:
“Okay you may leave
But do me a favour before—
There’s someone out there
I don’t know their name.
A hazel-eyed Medusa, wearing mauve
It’s what I painted- all the same
Your cinematic prowess is all I need.
Click her now and bring her to me
But capture the whole journey…
So I feel seen”
I laugh:
Delhi is a maze—
A kaleidoscope of life.
No one richer, no one poorer
They’re all the same.
How do I find a stranger stitched in your mind?
But before I could see it myself
I was set out on the Dilli darshan.
Delhi metro station was the first pitstop.
I spot lovers—
Two hearts tethered by a song
Shared earplugs much like invisible red strings
A two-minute track,
but a million words unsaid.
*Camera shutter clicks*
Next station is Seelampur
Exit doors lead me to this grimy ghetto
Two boys chase a tattered tyre—
One wins, one loses
But both rejoice over a shared prize
I wonder about their destiny
Unbeknownst to them
But for now, they’re the kings of the cracked-up world
*Camera shutter clicks*
A little further you tether
Chandni chowk is at the centre.
In the bylanes of infamous Paranthe Wali Galli
Sweet aroma seeps through the air
But amidst the self-proclaimed food connoisseurs of the street
Stood a frail women
Elbows deep in a rusted bin—
Scanning for leftovers
For the little mouths at home wait for morsels.
*Camera shutter clicks*
This is all getting heavy
As sun sets and darkness looms,
My footsteps lead me to the Yamuna Ghat
I sit by the river
exhausted by the errands I never chose.
I fix up my snake-like curls
And my jacket—
mauve, with brush strokes fading at the seams.
An eerie realization creeps in.
The water— so shaky, yet so still
My hazy reflection stares back at me
And then—
It all dawns upon me.
Not a stranger in the city’s sprawl
This time the shutter clicks
No stranger
Just me.
I run back to the stationery
To get this woman printed
One hell of a woman—
Whom no mountains called,
Just her inner voice.
She’s the Medusa of her own world.
And oh!
She looks like someone I’m starting to know.