Ibohal Kshetrimayum Poet Narrative

A Scar I Caused

It happened a long time ago.
In his belief I had true talents,
My father sent me to an art school.
He, perhaps, thought I had potentials
To become another Van Gogh or Picasso.

On the first day, in the very first class,
I was given a brush and a tray of paints.
I stood facing an insanely white canvass.
The art teacher came in and asked me
To draw a mother.

I left the school without looking back 
At the bearded lunatic,
Who asked me to draw mother.
Years later, 
I painted my mother
With a bloodstained crayon,
A long red line, with ocassional breaks
Of white smiles here and there.

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