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Even if there were a little indiscreet haste in my stroke before the line culminates at the intended end, grief seizes me. Amidst a host of preoccupations I may forget it for a while temporarily, but the gravity of the error shall haunt me through the day. I deliberately don the grief searching for its roots. In the bid for solace I attempt to redo the painting. But if it fails still, it is consigned to bin torn to pieces.
Fine, the painting is gone! But what about the wound…Continue
Some eight years back….
Those days when artiste Chandra was busily moving on the streets of Bag Lingampally, one Anjaneyulu used to shadow him, and moving few feet groping through that darkness one would reach a house… which is the address of Anjaneyulu and his friends. And in that clumsy unclean house lay the…