I had imagined a tranquil afternoon by the Ganga, painting the riverbanks and bridges as the sunlight danced on the water. Instead, I found myself face-to-face with one of the most assertive art critics I’ve ever met—a little boy, no more than seven, with impeccable English and even more impeccable confidence.
He didn’t ask if he could paint; he demanded it. “You’re missing trees,” he declared, peering over my shoulder at my half-finished painting. “And why is the sky so empty?” Before I could respond, he plopped down beside me, grabbed a brush, and announced, “I’ll show you.”
I handed him his own page, hoping to redirect his creative energy. But the boy had other ideas. He dipped the brush into green paint and began covering everything—his page, his hands, my paint set, and eventually me. Green streaks appeared on my clothes, smudged across my arms, and, somehow, onto the edges of my painting.
As he worked, he explained, with great authority, how my painting needed more “life.” “Look at the trees over there,” he said, pointing to the forested hills in the distance. “Without them, it’s just water. That’s boring!” His passion was undeniable, even if his method was a bit chaotic.
By the end of the session, he had painted the world entirely green, including himself, and left me with a smudged but oddly endearing painting that I couldn’t bring myself to fix.
Later that evening, still speckled with green and carrying my paint-stained supplies, I went to the Ram Jhula Aarti. The river, now glowing in the golden light of dusk, felt like it had forgiven the day’s interruptions. The chants of the aarti carried through the air, weaving everything into a calm rhythm.
Standing there, watching the flames of the lamps ripple in the water, I thought about that little boy’s critique. Maybe he was right—maybe my painting had been missing something. Not just trees, but the life and unpredictability that Rishikesh brings to everything.
That smudged, green-streaked painting will never win awards, but it holds a memory I wouldn’t trade for anything. And isn’t that the point of art? To capture a moment, however messy, that makes you smile when you look back on it.