The Battle of colours

I have a story to tell. No, it does not have fairies, or goblins or even happily ever after for that matter. It is not my story, it is of the colours. They had a story to tell once, of paints and of feelings. Green, Red, Orange, White, Yellow, Blue and Black lived together in a canvas. It wasn’t one of those canvases where you have nice little houses painted in red and white, green trees and blue skies but rather a a patch work with few blotches of paint here and there. But then, these blotches had a pattern. It mostly contained Orange and Black with a little of Red in form of a tree with yellow, white and blue leaves and Green at the bottom.

Green wasn’t quite happy being at the bottom. With Black and Orange taking most of the space, which he thought wasn’t fair, Green felt he deserved more. He spoke about it to Yellow. Yellow was friends with all in the canvas. He and Orange were best friends, so space wasn’t quite a problem there. White was the sweet neighbour, he loved being in the canvas and wanted all to live happily. Blue couldn’t be bothered with talks. He never mingled much. That left with Red. In the evenings Red and Green would meet over coffee to gossip and bitch. “ It is unfair that Black and Orange should own so much space in canvas, “ said Green. Red sipping coffee replied, “ Yeah, that’s true. All that talk about equality is all a sham. Never practiced anywhere, in society nor in this bloody canvas.”

Green: “ Nobody gets to see me, Its all them that they notice. ‘ Oh look at the strokes here! Phenomenal! “

Red: “ They don’t deserve it any ways. Black is far too arrogant to talk to us and Orange is a snob.

They talked this every evening, until they decided to do something about it. With Blue who joined them, they decided to call for a meeting. Who should have the maximum space in the canvas? They discussed all day, it wasn’t an easy decision to make. Orange wasn’t willing to leave the space, Green wasn’t happy with it. Red and Black were almost at each others throats. White was all too upset with these changes. Pandemonium broke loose. Someone suggested that they take turns while others thought the canvas should be turned upside down. It was then that a suggestion came to call the artist.

“ Yes! That is it. We need the artist. Where is he?,” asked Yellow.

It wasn’t often that He heard his name being called from a canvas. He could hardly contain his joy. His colours wanted to talk to him. It was a year since He has seen this painting, one of his favourites. It always made him happy. Somehow the colours were not happy today. They didn’t like the fact that they were placed evenly on canvas. Was it possible for him to repaint them all uniformly on the canvas?

So he decided to help them. He got a new canvas and started painting. But something didn’t feel right. Colours after all existed by themselves. He hadn’t painted them. They had painted themselves. He only had to hold the brush and colours talked to him. He heard them that day and painted each stroke as they sang to him. But today, he heard no song, he heard no voice, he heard nothing. Plain silence. He couldn’t paint. He needed that voice in his head, that song in his ears.

Colours didn’t believe him. They never sang the song. They never disturbed him while he painted. Who sang the song? Whose voice was it? Who was it?

p.s. this is the first draft and the first one written in response to a painting shown to us in a creative writing conducted by Mrs Aruna Shenoy in Besant College. Have sent it to her. Will edit it once I get some suggestions. Se happens to be a part time lecturer in Besant , an awesome one I say and am honoured to be her colleague. So this post is for Mrs Aruna Shenoy, my favourite in Besant Womens College. Love you maam :)