Colours

This is a story i wrote two years ago when i was in 10th standard.
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Colours

Old, wrinkled eyes survey a colourful canvas hung in front. It is a pretty thing, with hues of numerous colours, light and dark, happy and sad, blending together to form a pleasing image. The strokes are dextrous, and cover the entire space with bold and sweeping movements. Light plays shadows on it, illuminating and darkening, creating millions of colours of the few painted on the cloth. But these eyes seek for something beyond this superficial imagery, these technicalities and tangibles, for that which is fundamental and intrinsic. What they find however is a diminished, faded, but not completely lost, faint memory.

‘Colours’
“I never could understand the meaning behind this painting…Colours…apt title though…”

“Indeed. What do see in this artwork, young lady?”

“As the title suggests, a clever mix of colours…Sir”

“Ah! Yes, a clever mix of colours. An honest and accurate description. Young lady, you are seeing all, and yet not seeing anything! A clever mix of colours! These colours, they are not dead pigments, but are brimming with life and vitality. Feel what you see, and you will find that these colours have a language of their own, one which is simple and universal. Each has it’s own story to relate, and layers upon layers to unravel and explore…Feel them, live them, celebrate them…”

Feel them…colours? Were they not mere entities? Or was there was more to them than what met the eye? Could they really have a language of their own?

Perhaps they did. But they weren’t going to give up their secrets so easily, oh no. They were individuals in their own right, and quite elusive ones too! It was only little by little that they opened their hitherto hidden treasure trove to be looted freely. And then, suddenly they sprang up everywhere, even in the most obscure places - the plain bland walls of the room, the seemingly blank piece of paper; they inhibited thoughts and affected actions. Reds and blues, yellow, green and purple, white and black, and each having millions of shades of their own. This palette was truly unpredictable, inexhaustible, and eternally exciting.

Life became a canvas. Every day was a new stroke, every minute a new shade, every emotion a new tinge…

The eyes come to pause on the Blue. It reminds one of the blue skies and the blue ocean, and the vast blue horizon where the two are united together. Peaceful and serene, at once dominating like the giant flood waves yet tranquil like the calm sea, it is rivalled only by the Red, piercing through it like a bullet.

Red is everything that blue is not. It is bright and stimulating, tantalizing and intense, arousing a thrill of passion inside. It is the colour of love and the colour of blood, and the colour of the intense heat that it generates around it.

The canvas became a confidante and a companion. Faithful and patient, it silently bared the incessant emotional outbursts, accepting sorrow, angst and hostility as readily as joy, love and affection. Like a mirror that reflects everything falling on impartially, it was also ruthlessly honest, showing all in the language of its colours, never hiding anything, never glossing over…

It became a confession chamber, where even the most closely guarded vices were unhesitatingly revealed, where actions were not manipulated, where feelings were poured out from the soul itself…

Yellow is warm and relaxing, like the sunshine on a bright winter morning. It energizes and inspires, wishing to influence all into it’s own carefree and blithe world.

But not the Purple. Purple is cold and solemn. It resists and challenges the yellow, holding it’s own before it, contrasting immaturity with responsibility. Stoic and formal though it may be, it is also honourable and trustworthy.

Hues, shades and tints of all possible natures covered the canvas, mixing and merging together fantastically. Some were dull and pale, while others vivid and intense, some bold and daring, others meek and submissive. Life unfolded on the canvas, bit by bit, stroke by stroke…

Hope flickers in the eyes as they pass over the Green. Green is refreshing and fertile, productive and inspiring. It is the colour of Mother Nature, of our home- the earth.

Orange is stark and bright. It’s splendour somewhat overrides the gentleness of green, dominating as it is. It is daring and demanding, symbolizing sacrifice and bravery.

Coat upon coat built on the canvas, each layer having something new to offer, a different account to narrate. If Blue was calm and soothing, it could also be dull and depressing. The passion of Red could sometimes be dangerously overpowering. Green could denote jealousy and Purple uncertainty. And so too for the other colours. They each had multiple identities, at times contradictory in nature.

On the surface, it was just a meaningless piece of coloured cloth, but in essence, the canvas was a lifetime condensed. Each colour was as though screaming silently to be heard and acknowledged, to be viewed, to be felt, to be respected.

But something was amiss. The canvas was never complete, never whole, always hungry for more, always unfinished…

White… pure, truthful, and sacrosanct. The start as well as the end, in birth as well as in death, white is everywhere and anywhere, sometimes invisible, sometimes conspicuous.

How monotonous and dreary the canvas would be, if not for the variety and versatility of these colours! What was red without blue, how could the yellow shine if not for the purple, what was the magnificence of orange sans the meekness of gentle green? They each had a part to play, small or big, and each as crucial as the other. For the canvas to be whole, they all had to play their designated roles and be in perfect harmony with one another. This was the truth of the canvas and the truth of life. Without achieving this delicate balance, the canvas could never be whole…

Today however, the canvas is almost finished. Almost, but not quite. There is still one last stroke to paint, one more colour to be applied. As the old and wrinkled eyes watch with satisfaction, a frail hand deftly paints a white spot in the centre.

And as though from far off, a faint voice can be heard, saying-

‘Colours’
“Hm…wonder what the artist intends to convey through this collage of shades…she’s painted it beautifully though.”

Perhaps the eyes can awaken another ignorant person to the depths and meaning of these colours, just like they once were…

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I would like to call myself an artist, and for an artist, colours are the medium of expression and the tools for communication. For me, colours have always been live and had an identity of their own. They are much more than just attractive additions to enliven a room or to titillate the eye. Indeed, they have taught me some of the most crucial lessons of life.

Life is like a canvas, and the canvas is bound to be colourful. These colours may not always be happy, or optimistic. Many times, in fact most of the times, they seem to be dreary and depressing. And this contrast is what makes the canvas interesting and challenging to create.

There never will be joy without sorrow, nor would we be able to cherish joy without having to endure sorrow, just like white without black, red without blue, and yellow without purple would be incomplete, boring and monotonous…