Looking through the mountains of neatly organized papers my mother, Sudha Ghosh, left in my charge, I found a cluster of poems. She wrote:
These poems were written for my pleasure in the summers of 1959 to 1969. I just jotted down the words and the lines on paper as the thoughts came to my mind. I did not think twice, nor did I care to revise the writing afterwards.
Writing…is just like painting a thought on canvas…The meaning behind, of course, has to be grasped by the reader according to his or her own idea of the subject.
When I read this, I was amazed that I have often invited the viewers to tell their stories behind my paintings, no matter how diverse, contrary or fantastical they may be. Could it be I had once read the lines above and buried them in my crowded mind? The following poem must have an abode on my website.
To my daughter
When I beheld thee in my arms
All my woes did I forget
My daughter, sweet! Oh my little charm
What might didst thou from the heavens get?
To love thee and caress thee has been my pleasure
Thy beauty and grace are thy treasure
Oh, sweet and loving daughter mine
In my dark world thou dost shine.
When in trouble or in pain
I looked at thee and not in vain
For that was how I cast away
All my grief of the day.
Ne’er in heaven was a child born
Nor in this dark and dismal world
With such gifts that are never shorn
Of nature’s beauty so well adorned.
My sweet, my pretty and loving one
How thou longed for a companion
And when thy little brother came
Thou hath a mate in all thy game.
When thou learnt to write and read
My heart’s desire was truly fulfilled
Shining both in art and play
Thou filled with joy all my day.
But as I watched thee grow and grow
To a beautiful woman whose thoughts did flow
Away from her mother’s heart’s nigh
A fearful fear came creeping by.
Oh! In this selfish world of ours
We all do love to feel and cling
To the little ones who have other cares
And keep away from their elder’s ring.
But I guess that’s e’er the rule
Of this world and heaven too
That all things from the mountain top
Must flow down to the ocean blue.
Thus I’ve seen in my own life
So vain it is to complain
About my own two little dears
If their love for me is on the wane.