Vincent Van Gogh was lying in the hospital bed. The moon was dark,. He could not distinguish whether it was morning or evening. The sleep that ended just now was full of bad dreams. Hounds chasing him and awakening suddenly he fell into a ditch. Such dreams have become a routine. Even when awake, he was having dreams that shook him. His favourite colour yellow never comes in these dreams. Yellow is a solace!
Suddenly he felt a severe pain. He was not sure what was causing it. Is this also a dream?
He saw someone beside his bed. A doctor or a nurse? The dress was white. The figure drew a chair from the corner of the room and sat on it near the bed.
Vincent saw that the figure was a man. He was holding something in his hand. It was a gun, and it was smoking!
Alarmed, Vincent asked, "who are you?"
The man smiled. He was extremely handsome with flowing black hair.
"Death", the man replied calmly.
Vincent wasn't terrified. When he looked at the stranger, the pain became unbearable. Suddenly he understood what caused the pain.
"You shot me?" biting the pain, Vincent asked.
"Yes", Death paused and continued, "There should be a reason, Vincent."
Vincent grew sad, his face wearing a dreary look.
"People will think I committed suicide."
Death smiled, "Does it make any difference?"
Yes, that would make no difference, thought Vincent. His was a wretched birth. No one understood him, his paintings, and his dreams, which were sweet earlier. Talent was a burden to him as it went unrecognized. Day by day he began to lose things - his sweet dreams, his talent for painting, and now he has lost himself. At times he couldn't even make out what he was or what was happening around him. Someone had brought him to this hospital for treatment.
"No, my friend, no," he said sadly. "That would not make any difference." He fell silent for a while and continued, "All these years, life was a torture for me. Now I am happy that it is going to end."
Death was pleasantly surprised. This was the first time a man has addressed him as friend.
"Vincent, I am surprised. You are not afraid of me. People die mostly out of fear on seeing me."
Vincent smiled. The pain was waning. He became weak and felt dizzy.
"I am not, I had more difficulty in dealing with your enemy."
"My enemy, who is that?" Death was confused.
"Life."
Death laughed and continued, "What an irony, Vincent. All want life and run way from me. You are having casual talks with me."
Vincent became curious of one thing.He asked, "You are said to come in black attire. How is that you are dressed in white?"
Death stared at Vincent gracefully.
"The actions of people make them see me as black or white. You have done not anything wrong, dear Vincent. I too am sorry that your life was wretched."
A silence fell in between them.
"Vincent, I too can give boons. I give you an option. You can take all your paintings with you and return later as a painter once more or you can leave all your paintings here and return as an ordinary man. The choice is yours."
Rebirth, Death was talking about rebirth, Vincent thought.Take all
my paintings, my dreams, my treasure, and return once again as an artist. That would be great. Suddenly gloomy thoughts caught him. What if this disease comes with me then also, what if my life is wretched once more? Life would be repeating. No, not all artists are blessed with a good life.I can't bear this cross once more.He made up his mind and said firmly, "No, Death. I will come with you barehanded. Let the paintings be here. I will will return once more
and enjoy these as an art lover or even buy it at a huge price." Vincent laughed aloud. He felt light and happy. He was feeling so after a long time. Years back, he would feel elated for no reason, would be in high spirits for nothing, but lost it to his mental illness later. He felt like a bubbling baby in its mother's arms.
Vincent left his much mutilated body and followed Death like a lamb.