Fall Equinox post meridian.
The essence of autumn zephyr flowing sinuous environing the quintessence of the suburb. I was otiose against the brassy lunette taking a gander at the vista that laid au naturel in front of me.
“Life is a facade. You need to learn to survive and adapt”, Mamaji used to kibitz me after my parents conked out in that accident.
“Mother! Father! Help us God!”, I caterwauled but in vain as the spectral tranquility of the night was disrupted by the parroting sirens of the arriving ambulances.
“Doctor, where are my parents?”
I still can recall the day as I glide my fingers on the cicatrix below my right eye. Scars which have have been my only memories from the yore, scars which I have carried as trophies.
As I withdraw my fingers from my wrinkled skin, I noticed blood on my fingers.
“Breathe. It’s all gone”, I closed my eyes and opened it again to leer at my pale fingers.
I switched my assiduity from my achromic past to the achromic canvas in front of me. I picked up my pallete, took up my brush, stroked my fingers gently against the texture of the synthetic hair of the paint brush.
As I splashed colors on to the grainy texture of the canvas, the painting limned a suburbia, vibrant tinted buildings, a peppy missus taking a stroll as some children played the pigskin sport in the roadside. An environment drowning in zest. One couldn’t envisage a more utopian life.
As my brush graced the canvas with the final texture, I came up with the cognomen of the art. “My Nirvana”, as my magnum opus stood poised against the saffron sky behind.
As I rested on the hospital bed, engulfed with the medicinal effluvium, my Mamaji was having a brief palaver with the doctor.
“He lost his vision in the accident. I’m sorry”
A choate novel opaque world stood in front of me as I entered through the door towards the dark as a blinded orphan.