The barrier, the Politicians create,
While the Artists go to break it.
Yes, he did break it really,
By his works of art mainly.
His canvass stood erect.
His brush danced o’er it.
At his will, the colors mixed.
His eyes, on the art, deep fixed.
His every painting, so meaningful,
Focused his expressions mental.
His search for a career tireless
Fixed his life before canvas endless.
His every magic touch spoke,
Of his every odd masterstroke.
The wet canvas dried up slowly,
That became a solid portrait really.
Who christened him as Anand?
Anand means “Happiness,” as a word.
He brought delight to the world,
True to his name all around.
The orphanage, at last, gave a shelter
To him as a forsaken child at its door,
But in the pursuit of art his mad urge
Made him restless as he grew up of age.
Tara gave his life a new dimension,
With her true love out of affection.
As a vendor of cakes and fruits,
She pushed her cart in the streets.
Unmindful of the hot sun or rain,
Tara, daily, shuttled up and down.
Some leftover, by night, in her cart
She spared the same to her lover of art.
Her mother reached one foot to the grave
From her sinking life none could save.
As a fence for safety, Tara was in need,
And took him as her saviour in deed.
Happy were the days, they spent their life.
Tara proved to be his most loveable wife.
His paintings revealed her true reflection,
And stole her charm beyond description.
Her untold moods, he drew on the canvas.
She gave him, day and night, her every pose,
That he transferred to the miles of canvas,
Thus every piece of art became world famous.
He was proud of her beauty, but alas,
His narrow vision measured only the lines,
To plot her curves on the canvas in front,
And didn’t penetrate into her craving heart.
How long anyone of her age can wait?
Her young reflections on the canvas sheet,
May remain firm sans any change,
But she was a growing woman of middle age.
The magic of his works, enough she felt,
As her biological urge didn’t permit,
His stealing her charms to the canvas,
In making her a model for his madness.
She hated his brush and paint,
And felt like throwing them out,
But her fear of losing him then,
Stopped her from this action.
Her blind passion drove her mad.
Her one-sided love kept her sad.
The Hakim’s magic potion, at last,
She mixed up with his breakfast.
With no grip, his hands trembled.
His brush, he could no more hold.
His vision blurred violently.
His faculty of art failed slowly.
His aversion for work was total.
Her wish for this, by then, became real.
He was, for comfort, lying on her laps,
And closed his eyes, unaware of her lapse.
Like a baby in arm, she caressed him.
The bursting joy of life touched the brim,
Of her heart, as she felt for the first time.
What an aggressive role, she played this time?
The world lost an uprising one more star.
A new moon, at last, Tara won for her.
“Where art ends, love begins,”
That’s what now this story reveals.
(Note: Hakim is an unqualified local