Duende

 

Duende (Spanish, noun): a heightened state of emotion, expression and authenticity, often connected with a piece of art

Iravati. the king’s delirious daughter

Had come to the Atelier house;

Dishevelled hair, smudged eyes

She had come,

Looking for a bit of inspiration

In a piece of art

Where the rest of the kingdom failed

But the slopes of disappointment continued:

The students showed her

One art after another

But the princess was unmoved –

None touched the depths of her insane soul

And she turned hysterical

Blaming uselessness of the school

Bland, emotionless, lacklustre

She delighted in mockery

As the students tried to outdo each other

Impress the princess

In hope for a coin of gold

But they kept sliding

In the abyss of her disappointment

The princess turned to scream:

They were useless

All useless,

Wasting fortunes of the kingdom

Where was profundity in the brush?

Emotions in the colours?

Melancholy in the canvas?

The students huddled,

Fearing their studio would be shut

Each of them crucified

Banished to the wastelands

For the princess failed

To delight in a single work

That could open her heart

Until the Master came

And seeing students and princess

Understood the hysteria;

But Iravati was not finished

She blamed the Master as well

The true source

Of all subaltern art

That failed to inspire

But the Master stayed silent

And going to one corner,

Brought her a last piece of hope.

Did it help? He asked

Could the princess find the melancholy

She had been looking for?

In that one frame he brought

And the princess cried,

Indeed, she had been singed

As the Master pointed out

The details of the painting

Echoing the sadness, grief

Pain of the painting

The solitude of the protagonist

He described how the subject

Looked fraught with fears

Bludgeoned by the vagaries of life

To which the Princess cried

She hugged the painting with both hands

And let the dams of her eyes open

Deluging the atelier with her tears

The necklaces, the rings

Of pearl and diamonds,

They all came off, granted

To the Master

The one person who

Knew art

And the atelier was saved

The princess, thanked,

The Master again and again

And she walked out

With tear-stained eyes

All gloom and melancholy punctured

Drained, as she clutched the painting tightly -

A mirror handed by the Master…

19^th March, 2025