A visual world that his mind could conceive, made him one of the most admired artists in the world. Even when he couldn’t speak, hear or see, his thoughts were eccentrically illustrative. He never spoke about his ideas but the portrait was clear to those who could fathom the mysteries of his world. The mutilated face of his mother, lifeless body of his two year old brother and his disability; these were all those things that had enabled him to do what many artists do but never feel. Surprisingly, he didn’t draw sketches, abstracts, or sculptures. All he ever drew were colors. Life has the power to take sharp turns and when the time comes it never dithers to exercise it. His life had also done the same to him. ‘An artist never paints what he sees, he paints what he thinks,’ he often thought to himself. He never knew what impression his paintings left on others. He always had this strange notion of letting people view his pieces, the way they thought was right. But is there really any ‘right’ way to sense art? Some tasted his work while others just looked at it, some had even claimed to smell the art, and some were excited they could just hear it. Amid the mystifying hassles, nobody ever understood that his paintings were not tangibly comprehensive, they could not be touched nor felt. They were living ideas and they were supposed to be lived. They were the conduit of his expressions. They told the stories that he feared narrating to the world. That’s the best thing about art; you never have to say a word or even spare a gloomy glance. It says it all like it’s that part of you who has no worries and no fears.