A Sabbatical

Dear readers,
Due to reasons, strong enough, The FRW Magazine shall be on a sabbatical for a month or two. We hope to return with the same fervor that was missing lately.

The exact dates and other details of all the happenings shall be updated on the blog.



** I shall miss FRW as much as anything else in the course of time. **



- Editor
(edit.frwmag@gmail.com)

The Prodigy

Once upon a time in the city of Zwolf, lived a painting prodigy. He did magic with colours. He painted not only people’s faces but also their emotions with a splendid elegance. His fame, fortune and skill were revered and envied across the country.

As the unidirectional time flew, the ace artist began to turn into a narcissist. He began to believe that there is no better artist than he, himself. He proclaimed ‘art’ to be esoteric, and would often deride others who called themselves ‘artists’. His influence on the city’s culture was immense, and his opinions were often understood as facts.

It rained that day. The morning was embellished with spectacular butterflies and the few rays of the morning sun which successfully made their way out through the clouds to reach a surface that blossomed with colours. The melodious chirping of birds provided a sublime musical effect to the beauty, and the breeze kissed the man’s face generating a heavenly delight inside his body. Naturally, the artist in him started releasing strong urges to paint the splendor all by himself and make it his own. He took out his paint brushes, as if he were challenging the nature; his colours, as if they were to compete with the ones that were dancing outside. And, now, on a clean, white drawing sheet hanging on one of the huge halls of his quaint villa, he was all set to duplicate, or rather better, the beauty outside.

Magical, as it may sound to a few, he finished the painting within a few minutes. He stared at it twice. With the first stare of scrutiny, he smelled it. And with the second one of a distinctive pride, he drank it.

“There!” he said to himself ardently, “Even the nature, itself, would be jealous of my artistry.”

And then, he turned around to, once again, fix his eyes on the show outside, as if to tease the nature. But his eyes changed the language, as if hit by bewilderment. It was merely for a few minutes that he had his eyes off the scene outside, and much to his surprise, the picture of the outside had changed its shades and skin. It was ravishing, just as it was before; but now, it was different. The artist was shocked to see this versatility, as if it exploded in his mind, destroying his pride in a single moment, and the very next moment, he was ashamed of himself for doing what he did throughout the morning.

“Thou art is greater in the truest smiles,
Thou beauty is superior in the eternal joys,” he uttered unclearly as he walked out of the house of his art, to get lost in the art of his house.

- Mihir Chitre
mihirmumbaikar@gmail.com

A Photograph

Delusions in the mirror,
Blood-smeared frames,
Caught his fancy,
Often.
And yet the brush lay
Unused, dry and colorless.

Lost in a delirium,
Counting his last pennies,
As a mellow tune
Drummed his ears,
He wondered sadly,
Was this the death knell?
Darkness filled his world.

As this picture was unraveled,
His dilapidated world came alive.
Onlookers gasped,
And she won her prize.
Her eye made his life,
A reverence.


- Janvi Gandhi
Janvi.87@gmail.com