##We whitewashed our home with colors. In the process of cleaning and clearing, throwing away and retaining, watching the old fade into the new, I understood the joy of trees in spring. After a long winter it is a verdure celebration, their many shades of green.
##Dozens of boxes in the attic. Which memories do I need? What to discard? I love cleaning as long as I don’t settle down like dust with the past.
##Dear husband is confined to a room, and like a jailed bird is singing songs on love. Amour!
##I photographed the old colors on the wall. On one of them were pencil markings in feet and inches, how much my kid grew every passing year. And in brackets, the date, year and emoticons of happiness. I try to photograph it but cannot zoom out enough to capture the entire wall. The markings are unclear. I then divide the wall into three parts and take a close up. Later in the day, the markings are covered by the new misty green and I watch it through a mist of tears remembering the many joys a child and a mother had years back.
##Painting is a holistic process. We wanted colors to refresh the mind, rejuvenate the soul. We chose to sleep in ocean blue and wake up to misty green. My mother’s room was coated with wild yellow, the color of valleys in spring. We wanted our hallway to reflect the earthly red of love and sands of time. We also wanted fun. Chocolate and lavender welcome us when we enter home.
##The painters laughed in Bhojpuri. We, in Kannada. We spoke to each other in charades.
##My house help could not call the painter by his name. Dina Singh, was a tongue twister for her rustic tongue. She addressed him as Desingu raja. He laughed every time he heard his new name.
##I sit with my notebook near the window, watch the street and supervise the paint work. Summer hasn’t yet arrived, but it is hot in the afternoons. A grandfather walks his grandson home, nodding to the stories. A youngster animatedly talks to someone on his mobile. Must be a close friend. The auto driver sleeps in his vehicle under the tree. The painters talk non stop while working. Everyone of us has a story to share.
##At least one window in the house should open to a tree.
##Its 5.30 in the morning. A cup of hot coffee and silence give me company. A spider spinning a web on the window grill,
leaves erasing stars with the cool breeze,
buds opening to a new world,
and this pen that strokes the paper with love,
are the few noises I hear.
##Another day, says the sun.