Letter to Colours

Hey!

Your call always immersed me in a different world. A world of abstract dimensions that came in concrete sizes -- long, square-ish boxes of pencils, singing their sharp point straight out; in bigger boxes of crayons, with blunt melodies but more harmonies and of course in rectangles of pastels that did not generate any excitement in me. And then came the tubes. They were the best. Though, like everyone else, I too wake up to a tube of toothpaste, your variety watered the germs of excitement in me. "One green has three names?" I used to think. "One tube of that specific green can give me more greens? Wow." Later that turned a fascination towards the additives -- linseed oil, kinds of brushes, quality of paper etc.

Then I outgrew you. Suddenly. Like the snapping off the umbilical cord, and there I was -- out of all kind of boxes and tubes, in love with you, around me -- on walls, in landscape, in tiny things like colour of my toothbrush and that of the eraser in my pencil box. Your play with absorption and contrast mesmerized me. I could not 'draw' like my family members did. No one understood that pain but you. I will forever remain grateful to you to return to me in the form of lettering, in which monochrome and shades of grey, dance to delight. And now, when you have taken the form of words. Articulation needs colours, and you are my entire being, if I am anything. That straw I choose, depends on you, that comb I brush my hair with, the dial and the hands on a watch, the inner of a bag, the piping of a lingerie, the bottle I drink water from, the basket I keep my medicines in -- as I see, I hope you do too; what an extraordinary bond we have.

To be growing up in an ambience of artists is rare, and I agree, I am privileged. But you must equally agree when you see I can do no 'art' with you, how devastated I am. Another turn came, with charts. And crafts. These brought out my best Neem-toothpaste smile, dazzling, pristine. Doodles, that may have more space than design are precious moments. All along, much unacknowledged, you are, indeed, my lobster. And since lobsters exactly aren't my thing, you are my single malt. My perfect sunny side up. My companion for life.

You are invaluable, because you are mine. You are priceless because I will never wish to discard or sell you off. You are the turquoise of my earphone, the grey of my socks, the lime green of my toothbrush and the hot pink of my binder clips and Nike tick. You are the royal blue of my favourite t-shirt and the saffron on my kurtis. You are the French red and white stripes on the cloth I clean my silver pens with. You are the English primrose poise on my comforter. You are the American Rosewood table of my dream. You are the white dot on my Sheaffers and the jet black of the Noodlers with which I doodle on the beige pages of my Gangchill notebook. I could go on. And on. Like neon.

You are the colourful soul in me, from which, like a palette, sable hair fill themselves up, and paint my nude entirety.

Aesthetically yours,

K.