I didn’t know what to call her. Maybe she was a muse. A muse who helped me smile every time I made a new painting. She would come everyday to the adjacent door. Initially, she would glare at me when I smiled at her. Maybe her suspicion wiped off that she stopped to glare. It took her fewer more days to smile back at me. The painting I make that day, touches my heart more than anyone else’s.
I remember those late nights when I painted her for nights together. Her image refused to wipe off from my head. She was beautiful. She had a grace of sorts. Her beauty couldn’t be better described, I simply painted.
How I realised that I was too addicted to her presence before my eyes or in my head! How I realised that I was madly in love with her! How late I realised that I was not meant for her! I was just a roadside painter!