Painter

"... and notice the brush strokes, so strong yet gentle at the same time..."

I yawned, loudly enough for my grandfather to, hopefully, catch on. Apparently not, as he continued his animated tirade on the lifeless, mundane, boring thing in front of us. Five minutes earlier, I had stared at it with my head tilted and eyes crossed in an attempt to make something interesting out of it. The manuover failed, obviously, and managed to make me quite dizzy for some time too. So now, I had given up, and was reduced to staring at my feet and hooking and unhooking my ankles, hoping and hoping with all my heart that we could leave the dratted place soon.

"... and look at the marvellous detail, my boy, the pink-tinged petals, especially, they are so..."

So what, exactly, I did not care to know. My mind was already soaring away from the museum. In my elevated state of imagination, I was free --- free to play, glide, hover, jump, and twirl as I liked. There, I could indulge myself as I liked, stuff myself silly, shout until my voice went hoarse and croaky--- without fears of any meddlesome, boring old man stumbling upon me and frowning in that irritating, high-browed manner. There was no other way I could describe that frown.

Don't get me wrong though; I don't hate my grandfather. In fact, I love him, for all his sternness and quirks and misplaced enthusiasm. We had been living alone for as long as I can remember: he was the one who brought me up to be the well-fed brat that I was. My memories of my childhood cannot exist without my grandfather in them: after all, he was the one who had initiated me in all the wondrous things that never failed to feed a growing boy's curiosity: catching crickets, chinese chess, and hunting rabbits, just to name a few. Last summer, on my birthday, he had been the one to introduce me to the Haven.

The Haven was my secret hideout near the hut: a secluded haven near a pond which was encircled by trees so that it was hard for anyone to peep in. I liked to think that I was the only one, besides my grandfather, to know its location, and more importantly, the way in. There, I could do anything I liked. I could climb the tree and sit up there, reading a book. I could roll around in the mud when it rained. I could observe the ants building their nests while basking in the warm April sunshine. There, I could do basically anything I wanted. My grandfather had promised never to intrude upon me while I was there, so long as I told him beforehand I was going there. And he kept true to his word, and gave me the freedom I so desired. I really respected him for that.

Unfortunately, while I loved him, it was difficult for me to endear myself to his interests, which he would, time after time, try to enforce upon me. The oldest of his interests was Chinese painting, which was, to me, the most boring subject matter one could ever obsess after. I could never see how the inkish black strokes were a showcase of a person's mastery, discipline, and depth of character. I never saw the supposed brilliance the old-fashioned colours brought to the painting. All I saw was a lifeless replica of what I could see everyday if I so bothered to open my eyes. And yet my grandfather had dedicated so much of his later life in this particular pursuit.

One day, it had suddenly occured to him to introduce me to his lifelong love. I was seven at the time. While initially fascinated by the art of mixing the colours, I was immediately frustrated with the tedious effort involved in the actual act of painting. My grandfather took a day just to discipline me in the art of holding the brush, as my fingers seemed to be made of unrelenting wood rather than flesh. Even after that, when it was time for me to produce my own piece of art, the end product looked more like a toddler's casual doodle, if anything. When I showed my "masterpiece" to my grandfather, I could see his eyes become tinged with disappointment; but then, just a second later, that emotion disappeared, and he was smiling at me, patting my shoulder and saying "You just lack the confidence, my boy." I did not understand what he was talking about: I was perfectly confident, all right. It was just that I had no talent for this age-old art, and confidence would not, and could not, make a difference.