Sketches in Scarlet

By Insha

All that blood was never beautiful. It was red.

But the failed artist in me kept on saying,

"What is one more canvas? What is one more sheet of paper? Splash it one last time. I

promise you, this is the last time."

And my half-witted heart believed it. It splashed the color so hard, so fast, that there were

blotches of carmine all over the canvas.

The same canvas where it took my heart forever to scrape every last bit of ichor from the last

time.

Even then, the artist said the same thing: "What is one more canvas? What is one more

sheet of paper?"

But last time, the blotches were too close. Too close to even distinguish between the men

and the women. Too close to tell apart illusion and reality. Too close to say whether the

people holding something in their hands were flowers or guns.

So I had to scrap the whole thing. Start fresh. Start anew.

And I made a promise to myself: no more painting with red. No more blotches of ivory.

It is not my color. It is not my color. It is not my color.

I kept on saying, like a man possessed.

But then I saw a flower. A red flower. The rose itself, if I may say. And that failed artist

missed no chance and whispered in my ear,

"What is one more canvas? What is one more sheet of paper? Splash it one last time. I

promise you, this is the last time."

He didn't say he would make something meaningful out of it this time. Or that I could even

manage to get the color flawlessly on paper. But I didn't ask either, as if I didn’t want to know

the answer—not yet.

I wanted to destroy this canvas once again, so I did. I did what the failed artist said. I

splashed the red.

And this time, it was half on canvas, half on me.

The blotches were so far apart that I could clearly see:

The man was on the canvas, but the woman was on me. Too far apart to say what is illusion,

what is reality.

Too clear to see that the people were holding flowers in their hands, but all the guns were

splashed on me.

The artist failed. Again.

But this time, my poor little heart has to scrape crimson not just out of the canvas but also

from my own skin.

Will all that blood ever be beautiful? Or is it always going to be red ?

By Insha