The kashful story

There is an artist in him. He paints or, shall we say, he tries to paint subjects that stir, touch or move his mind. His eyes open to nature, he enjoys the beauty of it but his mind habitually streams into exploring greater meanings of the apparent.
Have you seen the kashful? No! It is a kind of white thin fibrous, feathery flower that blooms on a species of long stemmed plant, which abundantly grows, especially by the riverside, on the alluvial plains of many streams and brooks of our country.
Have you seen the fluttering beauty of kashful, swinging under the balmy breeze by a river against the background of the blue sky? Let us go then with our man to the riverside.
His name is Husein Khusbu, he likes to paint, likes to put in the perspective, what comes to touch his mind. For the past few days he has been visiting a place; he has discovered a stretch of land by the turn of a streaming run of the river near his home, blooming with kashful. He goes there to simply sit at a height on the river bank and down the stretch of sloping land his eyes feast, and his mind reflects, on the dancing abundance of kashful against the light blue sky of the forenoon.
Colours of shimmering butterflies happily float among the dancing kashful, while the softly flowing breeze and the blue water on the stream sings a melody in unison. Some chirping birds float and dive and add to the orchestra.  At a distance, country boats ply on the river. A farmer carries home the produce of the land on a thin path that fades away into the horizon. He devours the intricate living beauty of kashful among the splendours of nature. He listens to his yearning, his instincts say, if he can capture in water colour, on a piece of paper, the swinging kashful against the blue sky!
The sun slowly turns westwards and the sunlight casts a slanting gaze upon the kashful, the blue sky changes to a softer tone, the breeze becomes cooler, the birds and butterflies continue to hover and our artist sees another angle to the grand beauty.
The following day he visits the same place to feast his eyes upon the waving kashful, by the riverside, against the backdrop of ever changing tone of the blue sky and patches of clouds. The angle of light and colour and tone changes as time graduates from the mid-morning into the afternoon. A boatman sings his way to his destination, small blackbirds twitter in orchestration with the gentle breeze while a wild fragrance surrounds the ambiance.
Husein Khusbu still ponders if he can draw all these on a piece of paper in watercolour!
Another day dawns and the living beauty of kashful against the blue sky, the blue water beneath, the soft flow of air, the mildly singing birds and fluttering butterflies  - all these go on in a series of scenic beauty. Our man, Husein Khusbu, sitting on the edge of the river, looks on, rapt in exquisite delight.
Today he has brought his easel, palette, brushes, watercolours and, of course, some white boards. With quick strokes, he sketches out what he wants to picture. He gradually and painstakingly tries to bring alive the lively kashful by the flowing river under the blue sky with little blackbirds and butterflies on a still, plastic surface of paper. He looks at his illustration and he looks at nature – he does not like what his art has become! He scraps it and goes home. He thinks he will come again tomorrow and try!
The following day, again our artist sits by the river bank at some distance to get what he considers an artist's view of his grand subject. He begins working on the picture that he wants to paint. He brushes out what he feels to be his sublime desire with marvellous strokes and colours.
When he thinks that the art is done, he feels that the countenance of beauty has become nothing more than simply a fleeting moment captured in plasticity – a very transient snap of beauty of dancing kashful by the river that is frozen on his painting. He feels that his yearning to capture the kashful against the serene beauty has not been realized on his art. He delves into his mind but seems unable to fathom and understand what it is that is not there in his creation. His introspection continues. He is sad, his eyes moisten and teardrops fall on his painting and blur the raw colours of his art.
He feels his art has become, at best, an expression of a fleeting moment of an exquisite realism; or an impression that is created of the beauty he has perceived in nature. He thinks some of his friends may, perhaps, admire this work as a piece of art – but he feels it is just a piece of art, nothing more. And he wanted something more to be present in his art!
By then the sun has set and the dim golden glow of evening is rapidly engulfing the place. He slowly stands up and goes home.
The night falls over the homestead of our man, Husein Khusbu. Tonight, like many nights, millions of stars are smiling through the clear yet mysterious sky upon his little rural abode. The half moon has added to it an inscrutable luminescence. Everything appears at peace and the peace is accentuated by the occasional barking of dogs and by a passing midnight train.
Dawn breaks in to chase away the last shade of the fading darkness of the night and the homestead of Husein Khusbu comes alive. The birds of the nearby grove leave their nests, the elders prepare to go to work and the children to school.
Husein Khusbu, in his room, stands before his easel, where his piece of art hangs. He has been staring at his art, thinking.
After a while, he moves near the window and looks outside at the mid morning. He looks on. On the one side, the vast fields that run on to meet the distant river are swayed with various shades of green and yellow crops. On the other side of the fields, many varieties of large trees with thick foliage adorn the landscape. This is the Grove, as it has been lovingly called by the ancestors of Husein Khusbu. On another side, a rural highway lined with tall trees runs on to another village. This is the land which his mother bequeathed to him. Memories of his mother always streams into his mind. Often the childhood lullaby sung to him by his mother comes up from the deep memory treasure vaults and tunes into his mind. The varied bedtime stories pass through his imagination. Husein Khusbu comes out of his room and on to his courtyard. He walks by the fields of crops, enters the Grove. He walks among the tall trees on the narrow path that takes him to the large lake built by his forefathers. He sits by the edge of the lake under the shadow of a tall tree. Nature at its pristine beauty engulfs him. He thinks about his painting of the kashful. He thinks – let it be the art as it may, but the experience of nature is much more than an art. Husein Khusbu thinks he has greater things to do. He moves on with a contented smile, begins a plan to build a garden on his ancestral land.

Naser Yusufuddin, a businessman, studied English literature at Dhaka University.