I would have painted you riding your bike, your face covered with a shawl, a terrorist on trawl. And I would have painted you looking at me all confused, not knowing what to make out of all the stupid things I say, giving up, and letting be.
I am not a painter but a writer. And it is you I paint, in every written word of my life.
Also Published in Muse India, Jan-Feb 2017 issue