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g, peered at the painting she had seen downstairs. Cerulean blue dots had been added —for which I was to blame. I had got Renee a 250ml tube of Cerulean Blue Winsor and Newton oil paint from Australia, knowing she used that colour— and that Third Eye (which should have been at the glabella according to the chakras) stuck in the middle of the forehead. Maznah turned the handle of the penyapu and pointed to it, Yang ini? She asked, puzzled at God’s gift. We cracked up and clattered down the stairs laughing. I mean, with that God-given painting, one would have to re-define the entire concepts of light and beauty. If I hadn’t known her, I would have thought that Renee was poking fun at herself. I realised I hadn’t laughed since the end of June 1995. Laughing was such a relief from the fear of speaking out. My mouth seemed clamped shut in discretion for fear of being misunderstood and mis-represented and of being the cause of everyone’s unhappiness in a place where discretion is taken as smug arrogance guaranteeing unpopularity; a place where gossip is valued.

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