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At first glance, the painting holds you in warmth—deep, earthy tones layered with quiet stillness.
Look a little longer.
Somewhere within these deeper hues rests a small trace of sunlight.
It doesn’t dominate the canvas—it simply exists.
That light is not meant to lead the eye, only to be discovered.
And once you see it, the painting begins to feel different—calmer, fuller, and complete.
When I look at this painting, it feels very quiet.
It is not rushing anywhere.
There is nothing busy in it – only simplicity.
The colours don’t compete with each other.
They just exist, gently, in their own space.
Reh is about staying.
Not moving forward, not going back – just being here, for a moment longer.
There’s always one painting.
The one people keep coming back to…
They don’t always know why.
They just stop.
And stare.
Sometimes they smile.
Sometimes… they get quiet.
They say—
‘There’s something about this one!’
Maybe it’s the warmth.
Maybe it’s the way the sky peeks through like a memory.
Or maybe…
it reminds them of something they’ve carried deep inside
but never had words for.
I never rush to explain it.
Because I know—the ones who are meant to feel it, will.
And when they do… they just know.
This Kalpavriksha in white has a different kind of presence. White has always felt special to me—it brings a calm that you can’t quite explain, but you feel it the moment you look at it. That’s the first thing this painting does. It just settles the space around it.
When I began, I imagined keeping the ground simple.
But as I reached the final few minutes, something shifted.
My hands just moved on their own, and these flowing roots appeared… almost as if the tree wanted to show its grounding, not just its light.
The soft white, the glow, the grounding roots… everything together gives this piece a quiet, spiritual charm.
There’s something interesting about this painting. The longer you look, the more it opens up – like meditation.
First there’s just white. Then you begin to feel the calm in it, the grounding from the roots, the quiet energy rising through the tree.
That’s what makes it feel magical, not loud, but quietly surprising.
A reminder that peace itself has power, and that sometimes the most beautiful energy comes from the quietest colors.
I’ve named this painting Shanta. Everything in this piece was planned—except the moon. It appeared almost on its own, and with it came the sense of calm that completed the scene. The forest, the light, the stillness—everything began to flow together. Shanta is that quiet moment where stillness meets light, and the unplanned becomes divine.
Some time ago I painted a piece called Echoes. It’s found its collector and no longer lives with me. Yet the feeling it gave me never left. I missed the mood, that energy, that presence in my space, and that’s when Echara began. Born from the same space within me. It carries the continuation of Echoes once held. The red still lingers, now beneath the green skies and purple-pink mountains. As if the same story wanted to stay with me in a new form. Echoes moved on; Echara still stays.
