prabha-sridhar
Sketch of a Day
The interior of the bookshop was dim. It smelt of silverfish, mildew and dust. Crooked piles rose to the ceiling. More books lay scattered on the floor, in tumbledown heaps. From library to museum to art exhibition, it had been a day well spent. I found myself eagerly tugging at a slim drawing book, like the ones we used to have in school. Maybe I felt nostalgic or maybe it was the bright green cover that attracted me. Maybe it was just easy to get at. Anyway, I had the book in my hand. I opened it. There was no name. “Anonymous,” I whispered to myself happily. The first few pages were filled with meticulous shapes of the different parts of a tree.
“Someone is learning to draw a tree,” I thought. I flipped through the pages rather carelessly. One arrested my attention. It held the suggestion of a tree, windblown, disappearing on the edge of the sheet. Like a dream teetering on the edge of consciousness. Down below in the right corner the year 1975 seemed to wobble.
Curious, I turned back a few pages.
The first full sketch of a tree stood on the extreme left of the page. 1970, marked with a flourish. It was a young sapling, delicate in form, tentatively spreading out its branches with slender leaves, and inquisitive roots digging into the earth. On the next page the leafy branches spread out generously. Roots hugged the soil, yet dug into it. The trunk, strong and solid, held up the crown and held down the roots.
I turned another page. The tree had moved a little to the right. Its branches and leaves were eclipsed by a burst of luxuriant flowers. The roots seemed to have disappeared somewhere into the netherworld. The next tree was heavy with fruit. Its branches bent low down almost touching the earth. The roots were gnarled and thick and curled at the base of the trunk.
The next page was a sock in the eye. On the extreme right stood the tree bare and stark. Its branches bent and broken, the trunk cracking in places. Its roots were withered and hollow. Soon the trunk was simply lying on it side. The floating tree was next, the picture that had made me want to journey back to the beginning.
The last page was mostly blank.
A small smudge of black in the dog-eared corner and an anonymous quote---“When all errors are exhausted the last companion to sit down with us is nothingness.”
I suddenly felt very tired. I bought the book. Clutching it tightly I stared blankly at the road getting swallowed up by the speeding wheels of my bus back home.
Poll Rate this entry
The interior of the bookshop was dim. It smelt of silverfish, mildew and dust. Crooked piles rose to the ceiling. More books lay scattered on the floor, in tumbledown heaps. From library to museum to art exhibition, it had been a day well spent. I found myself eagerly tugging at a slim drawing book, like the ones we used to have in school. Maybe I felt nostalgic or maybe it was the bright green cover that attracted me. Maybe it was just easy to get at. Anyway, I had the book in my hand. I opened it. There was no name. “Anonymous,” I whispered to myself happily. The first few pages were filled with meticulous shapes of the different parts of a tree.
“Someone is learning to draw a tree,” I thought. I flipped through the pages rather carelessly. One arrested my attention. It held the suggestion of a tree, windblown, disappearing on the edge of the sheet. Like a dream teetering on the edge of consciousness. Down below in the right corner the year 1975 seemed to wobble.
Curious, I turned back a few pages.
The first full sketch of a tree stood on the extreme left of the page. 1970, marked with a flourish. It was a young sapling, delicate in form, tentatively spreading out its branches with slender leaves, and inquisitive roots digging into the earth. On the next page the leafy branches spread out generously. Roots hugged the soil, yet dug into it. The trunk, strong and solid, held up the crown and held down the roots.
I turned another page. The tree had moved a little to the right. Its branches and leaves were eclipsed by a burst of luxuriant flowers. The roots seemed to have disappeared somewhere into the netherworld. The next tree was heavy with fruit. Its branches bent low down almost touching the earth. The roots were gnarled and thick and curled at the base of the trunk.
The next page was a sock in the eye. On the extreme right stood the tree bare and stark. Its branches bent and broken, the trunk cracking in places. Its roots were withered and hollow. Soon the trunk was simply lying on it side. The floating tree was next, the picture that had made me want to journey back to the beginning.
The last page was mostly blank.
A small smudge of black in the dog-eared corner and an anonymous quote---“When all errors are exhausted the last companion to sit down with us is nothingness.”
I suddenly felt very tired. I bought the book. Clutching it tightly I stared blankly at the road getting swallowed up by the speeding wheels of my bus back home.
Poll Rate this entry