Many years ago I remember having watched the mighty Thunderbolts in action, from the roof top of a building, at a distance that today seems like a stone's throw away from the tarmac.
The splendour of the nine Hunter Aircraft in formation, painting the wonderful blue canvas, had me spell bound. That was the day that I decided that I too would be a painter and that the sky would be my canvas.
Life went on as it did before the air show. The teachers continued to use the colour red liberally on my report cards. Like a stubborn artist, I just continued to dream on and keep painting. Somewhere along the line came along a motion picture about the Top Guns of the United States Navy, and there I was lost in it like a dedicated fan admiring his favourite Ravi Varma Woman.
I was gloriously oblivious to the fact that if I wanted to paint on this canvas, there were some absolutely necessary hurdles that I would have to get past. The numerous unit tests, term tests, pre board exams, board exams, entrance tests, interviews, pilot aptitude tests, medical tests, three years of torture (politely put) among other things.
For me the painting on the canvas was clear, though everyone else saw otherwise.
The Ejection seat of the Mig was going to be my stool, the sky my canvas, the joystick my paintbrush and the mother earth my easel.
I did finally get on to my stool. I did paint the blue with my heart for what will always be a very short time, and enjoyed every moment of it.
But today, my canvas has changed but the painter in me once again sees a canvas and the final masterpiece so clearly.
My son is my masterpiece & his mind the canvas & I have a picture in mind.
I wonder if my masterpiece is thinking about his. No, I do not want him to see it now, today or tomorrow, but cannot help wonder if he has seen his canvas & masterpiece just as I did many years ago.
No, I am not going to point him in any direction to find his canvas or his subject, just because I did mine when I was his age or thereabouts.
I do not want it to be the same as mine, but all I want is to for him to be able to see his masterpiece clearly.
I want him to love his canvas just as honestly as I did mine.
Work twice as hard or maybe not, but surely twice as smart as I did for mine.
I want him to be more steadfast in his passion, just as I did.
I want him to read about his canvas, many times more than what I did about my canvas.
Tonight; when I see him sleep peacefully, I hope he is dreaming about Painting Nudes in Paris or where ever it might be.
Somewhere deep down in me, I feel he already has seen it just as I did, but what the hell even if he does not, that ....... just might be his canvas!!!!
