top of page
King for a Day
Acrylic on 24 in. X 18 in. X 1.5 in. wrapped canvas
Kharagpur.. the small sleepy town where I grew up revolved around steam engines and associated workshops. The pay day used to be the 10th of each month and that was the day when the town changed colors and sounds for a day … for a day the lowly paid workshop workers got their ever increasing debts dues paid, for a day these folks had enough food on the table, for a day they were happy and they got drunk and danced thru the evening while loudspeakers blared the latest Bollywood songs.
I remember on those 10th days when we felt cozy in the warmth of yellow lights flooding our living rooms and crickets chirped outside, the night’s silence was pierced by the occasional drunk singing thru the streets while trying to find his way home thru the maze of street lights (that seemed to have suddenly moved into middle of the sidewalk!), and the bottles rolling thru the sidewalks or the occasional one slipping thru those hands shattered and splintered on the streets….
I don’t know why I have always been enamored by this one day ..I guess the contrast and the reality of the next day never left me … the slippery slope of fleeting happiness of that drunk … I often wonder if the memories of life or for that matter life itself is slowly knowingly slipping away despite our best efforts to keep holding it … should we care? Isn’t the beauty of happiness of the moment itself is in the fragility of the glass bottle .. even if he doesn’t find his way home, what’s the harm as the world is his oyster for a day and he is the king of the streets just for a night!
All my Love for you
Acrylic and oils on 18 in. X 24 in. X 1.5 in. wrapped canvas
I have always believed that love carries both its tenderness and its weight, that it blooms like roses yet beats with the gravity of a heart. In this painting, I placed myself within that paradox—between beauty and vulnerability, between the offering and the wound.
The woman holds roses, but they are not mere flowers; they are born out of her very heart. They spill upward, each petal both fragrant and fragile, yet rooted in something visceral and raw. To give love is never just to hand over blossoms—it is to surrender a part of one’s lifeblood, to reveal the tender pulse that sustains us.
Half her face hides behind this bouquet of heart-roses, for love is always partly concealment, partly revelation. We show what we dare, and yet what we hide speaks louder. The single, wide eye gazes outward, not in demand but in quiet knowing—love does not beg; it simply is.
The background drifts between dream and reality, memory and distance. Perhaps it is a night where words float like lost letters in the sky, where silence itself carries the weight of confession.
Memories of the Moon
Acrylic on 24 in. X 18 in. X 1.5 in. wrapped canvas
Memories and dreams mingle in the soft glow of the moonlit night, as I sit hand-in-hand with the love of my life .. making time to paint the hues of love in the blues of forgiven; yet not forgotten pains…. reflected on mind’s fleeting stream…
As a child, looking at the solitary lamp in our yard, I often wandered - isn’t the light of the flickering lamp in my mother's hand much more beautiful than the twinkling of stars in the distant sky? …… Of-course, as you grow older and learn to rebel…
"In the realm of hunger
Earth favors the prose, and the
Full moon feels like a scorched bread.”
However, one never overcomes the fascination for the full moon. In the world of love - lurking shadows of darkness gets hidden in its magical light. At that moment everyone and everything could be loved; when the boy sitting next to me recites -
“This hand has touched your face
Can I commit any sin, with this hand?”
That old moon still keeps us awake all night ... looking at its reflection in the creek that runs behind the backyard woods … my childhood, my youth, my impending old age all gets mixed up. At that instant.. the harsh reality of exile touches the windows of my dreams. The silent needless pain of remembering, sketches the pains of not-remembering .. sketches that go deep!
"Forget not that near our yard, the
Moon laments deep in the waters of the eternal well.”
Photographs and Memories
Oils on 18 in. X 24 in. X 1.5 in. wrapped canvas
Had I walked a little farther,
I would have gathered more images;
so many stories I never told you…
And still, I walk,
still, I capture frames,
still, I whisper stories to you.
I gave up writing letters before you left,
but with my brush I write only to you,
searching only for you.
If I walk a little farther,
I may touch you—find your reflection;
for in my stories, you are me.
-Prantik Sinha
Uprooted
Acrylic on 30 in. X 24 in. X 1.5 in. wrapped canvas
This painting was born from a quiet ache inside me—the ache of separation, of carrying roots that no longer touch the soil they once belonged to. In The Uprooted, I painted myself as both woman and tree, because I often feel suspended between two worlds: one that shaped me, and another where I now stand, searching for grounding.
The roots in this work reach outward, but they do not hold. They symbolize memory, ancestry, and a sense of home that exists more in the heart than in the earth. The closed eyes are not of sleep, but of listening inward—listening to the whispers of places I can no longer touch, yet which still live within me.
To be uprooted is to carry both loss and possibility. It is to grieve the soil left behind, yet to discover resilience in unexpected terrains. The crumbling tree, the fading colors, and the quiet flight of birds all mirror the delicate balance between mourning and hope, fragility and transformation.
Through this painting, I wanted to express that uprootedness is not just absence—it is also a state of becoming. It reminds me that even when torn from the ground, the essence of who we are travels with us, seeking new ways to take root, to endure, and to grow.
The Ring
Acrylic on 24 in. X 30 in. X 1.5 in. wrapped canvas
On April 8, 2024, I stood beneath the sky as day surrendered to night and the cosmos unveiled its hidden face. The solar eclipse was not merely an astronomical event—it was a revelation, a reminder that even the most ordinary light can be eclipsed, and in that obscurity, the infinite reveals itself.
This painting is my attempt to hold that fleeting moment, though I know words and colors inevitably fall short. The swirling darkness around the sun became a portal—an eye of the universe gazing back at me. Stars appeared like whispers of eternity, reminding me that even in absence, light is never lost, only hidden.
Figures of love, memory, and spirit emerged within me: the dove of peace, the flame of the lantern, the dance of fire and air. They are not literal, but metaphors—bridges my mind built to cross the gap between the physical and the metaphysical. In that silence, I felt time collapse; I was both infinitesimal and infinite, a witness to something close to the divine. It seemed all sentient beings on this earth were merged into that infinite.
This work is not just a recollection, but a meditation—a way of painting the unpaintable, of giving form to the unspeakable awe that bridges science and spirituality. For a moment, the veil thinned, and I understood: the cosmos is not beyond us, it is within us.
I paint because I cannot fully explain, yet in these strokes I come close to demystifying what is otherwise ineffable—an encounter with the sacred written in shadow and light.
Wriju's World
Acrylic on 18 in. X 24 in. X 1.5 in. wrapped canvas
I met my nephew again after many years, at a wedding filled with noise, laughter, and countless voices braided together. Yet within that sea of commotion, he stood apart—untouched, unshaken, quietly drifting into a world only he could inhabit.
This painting is my attempt to enter, if only briefly, the sanctum of his solitude. The black lamb resting on his shoulder is both guardian and companion, a symbol of innocence that does not need validation from the outside world. The climbing vine grows freely, untethered to expectation, mirroring the way his thoughts spiral upward into spaces invisible to others. And the bird above is his spirit in flight—weightless, unconfined, always just beyond reach.
To me, he is not separate from reality, but more deeply immersed in another rhythm of existence—one that does not demand explanation, only acceptance. Watching him, I understood that presence is not always about participation; sometimes it is about carrying a whole universe within oneself.
King for a Day
Acrylic on 24 in. X 18 in. X 1.5 in. wrapped canvas
Kharagpur.. the small sleepy town where I grew up revolved around steam engines and associated workshops. The pay day used to be the 10th of each month and that was the day when the town changed colors and sounds for a day … for a day the lowly paid workshop workers got their ever increasing debts dues paid, for a day these folks had enough food on the table, for a day they were happy and they got drunk and danced thru the evening while loudspeakers blared the latest Bollywood songs.
I remember on those 10th days when we felt cozy in the warmth of yellow lights flooding our living rooms and crickets chirped outside, the night’s silence was pierced by the occasional drunk singing thru the streets while trying to find his way home thru the maze of street lights (that seemed to have suddenly moved into middle of the sidewalk!), and the bottles rolling thru the sidewalks or the occasional one slipping thru those hands shattered and splintered on the streets….
I don’t know why I have always been enamored by this one day ..I guess the contrast and the reality of the next day never left me … the slippery slope of fleeting happiness of that drunk … I often wonder if the memories of life or for that matter life itself is slowly knowingly slipping away despite our best efforts to keep holding it … should we care? Isn’t the beauty of happiness of the moment itself is in the fragility of the glass bottle .. even if he doesn’t find his way home, what’s the harm as the world is his oyster for a day and he is the king of the streets just for a night!
All my Love for you
Acrylic and oils on 18 in. X 24 in. X 1.5 in. wrapped canvas
I have always believed that love carries both its tenderness and its weight, that it blooms like roses yet beats with the gravity of a heart. In this painting, I placed myself within that paradox—between beauty and vulnerability, between the offering and the wound.
The woman holds roses, but they are not mere flowers; they are born out of her very heart. They spill upward, each petal both fragrant and fragile, yet rooted in something visceral and raw. To give love is never just to hand over blossoms—it is to surrender a part of one’s lifeblood, to reveal the tender pulse that sustains us.
Half her face hides behind this bouquet of heart-roses, for love is always partly concealment, partly revelation. We show what we dare, and yet what we hide speaks louder. The single, wide eye gazes outward, not in demand but in quiet knowing—love does not beg; it simply is.
The background drifts between dream and reality, memory and distance. Perhaps it is a night where words float like lost letters in the sky, where silence itself carries the weight of confession.
Memories of the Moon
Acrylic on 24 in. X 18 in. X 1.5 in. wrapped canvas
Memories and dreams mingle in the soft glow of the moonlit night, as I sit hand-in-hand with the love of my life .. making time to paint the hues of love in the blues of forgiven; yet not forgotten pains…. reflected on mind’s fleeting stream…
As a child, looking at the solitary lamp in our yard, I often wandered - isn’t the light of the flickering lamp in my mother's hand much more beautiful than the twinkling of stars in the distant sky? …… Of-course, as you grow older and learn to rebel…
"In the realm of hunger
Earth favors the prose, and the
Full moon feels like a scorched bread.”
However, one never overcomes the fascination for the full moon. In the world of love - lurking shadows of darkness gets hidden in its magical light. At that moment everyone and everything could be loved; when the boy sitting next to me recites -
“This hand has touched your face
Can I commit any sin, with this hand?”
That old moon still keeps us awake all night ... looking at its reflection in the creek that runs behind the backyard woods … my childhood, my youth, my impending old age all gets mixed up. At that instant.. the harsh reality of exile touches the windows of my dreams. The silent needless pain of remembering, sketches the pains of not-remembering .. sketches that go deep!
"Forget not that near our yard, the
Moon laments deep in the waters of the eternal well.”
Photographs and Memories
Oils on 18 in. X 24 in. X 1.5 in. wrapped canvas
Had I walked a little farther,
I would have gathered more images;
so many stories I never told you…
And still, I walk,
still, I capture frames,
still, I whisper stories to you.
I gave up writing letters before you left,
but with my brush I write only to you,
searching only for you.
If I walk a little farther,
I may touch you—find your reflection;
for in my stories, you are me.
-Prantik Sinha
Uprooted
Acrylic on 30 in. X 24 in. X 1.5 in. wrapped canvas
This painting was born from a quiet ache inside me—the ache of separation, of carrying roots that no longer touch the soil they once belonged to. In The Uprooted, I painted myself as both woman and tree, because I often feel suspended between two worlds: one that shaped me, and another where I now stand, searching for grounding.
The roots in this work reach outward, but they do not hold. They symbolize memory, ancestry, and a sense of home that exists more in the heart than in the earth. The closed eyes are not of sleep, but of listening inward—listening to the whispers of places I can no longer touch, yet which still live within me.
To be uprooted is to carry both loss and possibility. It is to grieve the soil left behind, yet to discover resilience in unexpected terrains. The crumbling tree, the fading colors, and the quiet flight of birds all mirror the delicate balance between mourning and hope, fragility and transformation.
Through this painting, I wanted to express that uprootedness is not just absence—it is also a state of becoming. It reminds me that even when torn from the ground, the essence of who we are travels with us, seeking new ways to take root, to endure, and to grow.
The Ring
Acrylic on 24 in. X 30 in. X 1.5 in. wrapped canvas
On April 8, 2024, I stood beneath the sky as day surrendered to night and the cosmos unveiled its hidden face. The solar eclipse was not merely an astronomical event—it was a revelation, a reminder that even the most ordinary light can be eclipsed, and in that obscurity, the infinite reveals itself.
This painting is my attempt to hold that fleeting moment, though I know words and colors inevitably fall short. The swirling darkness around the sun became a portal—an eye of the universe gazing back at me. Stars appeared like whispers of eternity, reminding me that even in absence, light is never lost, only hidden.
Figures of love, memory, and spirit emerged within me: the dove of peace, the flame of the lantern, the dance of fire and air. They are not literal, but metaphors—bridges my mind built to cross the gap between the physical and the metaphysical. In that silence, I felt time collapse; I was both infinitesimal and infinite, a witness to something close to the divine. It seemed all sentient beings on this earth were merged into that infinite.
This work is not just a recollection, but a meditation—a way of painting the unpaintable, of giving form to the unspeakable awe that bridges science and spirituality. For a moment, the veil thinned, and I understood: the cosmos is not beyond us, it is within us.
I paint because I cannot fully explain, yet in these strokes I come close to demystifying what is otherwise ineffable—an encounter with the sacred written in shadow and light.
Wriju's World
Acrylic on 18 in. X 24 in. X 1.5 in. wrapped canvas
I met my nephew again after many years, at a wedding filled with noise, laughter, and countless voices braided together. Yet within that sea of commotion, he stood apart—untouched, unshaken, quietly drifting into a world only he could inhabit.
This painting is my attempt to enter, if only briefly, the sanctum of his solitude. The black lamb resting on his shoulder is both guardian and companion, a symbol of innocence that does not need validation from the outside world. The climbing vine grows freely, untethered to expectation, mirroring the way his thoughts spiral upward into spaces invisible to others. And the bird above is his spirit in flight—weightless, unconfined, always just beyond reach.
To me, he is not separate from reality, but more deeply immersed in another rhythm of existence—one that does not demand explanation, only acceptance. Watching him, I understood that presence is not always about participation; sometimes it is about carrying a whole universe within oneself.
King for a Day
Acrylic on 24 in. X 18 in. X 1.5 in. wrapped canvas
Kharagpur.. the small sleepy town where I grew up revolved around steam engines and associated workshops. The pay day used to be the 10th of each month and that was the day when the town changed colors and sounds for a day … for a day the lowly paid workshop workers got their ever increasing debts dues paid, for a day these folks had enough food on the table, for a day they were happy and they got drunk and danced thru the evening while loudspeakers blared the latest Bollywood songs.
I remember on those 10th days when we felt cozy in the warmth of yellow lights flooding our living rooms and crickets chirped outside, the night’s silence was pierced by the occasional drunk singing thru the streets while trying to find his way home thru the maze of street lights (that seemed to have suddenly moved into middle of the sidewalk!), and the bottles rolling thru the sidewalks or the occasional one slipping thru those hands shattered and splintered on the streets….
I don’t know why I have always been enamored by this one day ..I guess the contrast and the reality of the next day never left me … the slippery slope of fleeting happiness of that drunk … I often wonder if the memories of life or for that matter life itself is slowly knowingly slipping away despite our best efforts to keep holding it … should we care? Isn’t the beauty of happiness of the moment itself is in the fragility of the glass bottle .. even if he doesn’t find his way home, what’s the harm as the world is his oyster for a day and he is the king of the streets just for a night!
All my Love for you
Acrylic and oils on 18 in. X 24 in. X 1.5 in. wrapped canvas
I have always believed that love carries both its tenderness and its weight, that it blooms like roses yet beats with the gravity of a heart. In this painting, I placed myself within that paradox—between beauty and vulnerability, between the offering and the wound.
The woman holds roses, but they are not mere flowers; they are born out of her very heart. They spill upward, each petal both fragrant and fragile, yet rooted in something visceral and raw. To give love is never just to hand over blossoms—it is to surrender a part of one’s lifeblood, to reveal the tender pulse that sustains us.
Half her face hides behind this bouquet of heart-roses, for love is always partly concealment, partly revelation. We show what we dare, and yet what we hide speaks louder. The single, wide eye gazes outward, not in demand but in quiet knowing—love does not beg; it simply is.
The background drifts between dream and reality, memory and distance. Perhaps it is a night where words float like lost letters in the sky, where silence itself carries the weight of confession.
Memories of the Moon
Acrylic on 24 in. X 18 in. X 1.5 in. wrapped canvas
Memories and dreams mingle in the soft glow of the moonlit night, as I sit hand-in-hand with the love of my life .. making time to paint the hues of love in the blues of forgiven; yet not forgotten pains…. reflected on mind’s fleeting stream…
As a child, looking at the solitary lamp in our yard, I often wandered - isn’t the light of the flickering lamp in my mother's hand much more beautiful than the twinkling of stars in the distant sky? …… Of-course, as you grow older and learn to rebel…
"In the realm of hunger
Earth favors the prose, and the
Full moon feels like a scorched bread.”
However, one never overcomes the fascination for the full moon. In the world of love - lurking shadows of darkness gets hidden in its magical light. At that moment everyone and everything could be loved; when the boy sitting next to me recites -
“This hand has touched your face
Can I commit any sin, with this hand?”
That old moon still keeps us awake all night ... looking at its reflection in the creek that runs behind the backyard woods … my childhood, my youth, my impending old age all gets mixed up. At that instant.. the harsh reality of exile touches the windows of my dreams. The silent needless pain of remembering, sketches the pains of not-remembering .. sketches that go deep!
"Forget not that near our yard, the
Moon laments deep in the waters of the eternal well.”
Photographs and Memories
Oils on 18 in. X 24 in. X 1.5 in. wrapped canvas
Had I walked a little farther,
I would have gathered more images;
so many stories I never told you…
And still, I walk,
still, I capture frames,
still, I whisper stories to you.
I gave up writing letters before you left,
but with my brush I write only to you,
searching only for you.
If I walk a little farther,
I may touch you—find your reflection;
for in my stories, you are me.
-Prantik Sinha
Uprooted
Acrylic on 30 in. X 24 in. X 1.5 in. wrapped canvas
This painting was born from a quiet ache inside me—the ache of separation, of carrying roots that no longer touch the soil they once belonged to. In The Uprooted, I painted myself as both woman and tree, because I often feel suspended between two worlds: one that shaped me, and another where I now stand, searching for grounding.
The roots in this work reach outward, but they do not hold. They symbolize memory, ancestry, and a sense of home that exists more in the heart than in the earth. The closed eyes are not of sleep, but of listening inward—listening to the whispers of places I can no longer touch, yet which still live within me.
To be uprooted is to carry both loss and possibility. It is to grieve the soil left behind, yet to discover resilience in unexpected terrains. The crumbling tree, the fading colors, and the quiet flight of birds all mirror the delicate balance between mourning and hope, fragility and transformation.
Through this painting, I wanted to express that uprootedness is not just absence—it is also a state of becoming. It reminds me that even when torn from the ground, the essence of who we are travels with us, seeking new ways to take root, to endure, and to grow.
The Ring
Acrylic on 24 in. X 30 in. X 1.5 in. wrapped canvas
On April 8, 2024, I stood beneath the sky as day surrendered to night and the cosmos unveiled its hidden face. The solar eclipse was not merely an astronomical event—it was a revelation, a reminder that even the most ordinary light can be eclipsed, and in that obscurity, the infinite reveals itself.
This painting is my attempt to hold that fleeting moment, though I know words and colors inevitably fall short. The swirling darkness around the sun became a portal—an eye of the universe gazing back at me. Stars appeared like whispers of eternity, reminding me that even in absence, light is never lost, only hidden.
Figures of love, memory, and spirit emerged within me: the dove of peace, the flame of the lantern, the dance of fire and air. They are not literal, but metaphors—bridges my mind built to cross the gap between the physical and the metaphysical. In that silence, I felt time collapse; I was both infinitesimal and infinite, a witness to something close to the divine. It seemed all sentient beings on this earth were merged into that infinite.
This work is not just a recollection, but a meditation—a way of painting the unpaintable, of giving form to the unspeakable awe that bridges science and spirituality. For a moment, the veil thinned, and I understood: the cosmos is not beyond us, it is within us.
I paint because I cannot fully explain, yet in these strokes I come close to demystifying what is otherwise ineffable—an encounter with the sacred written in shadow and light.
Wriju's World
Acrylic on 18 in. X 24 in. X 1.5 in. wrapped canvas
I met my nephew again after many years, at a wedding filled with noise, laughter, and countless voices braided together. Yet within that sea of commotion, he stood apart—untouched, unshaken, quietly drifting into a world only he could inhabit.
This painting is my attempt to enter, if only briefly, the sanctum of his solitude. The black lamb resting on his shoulder is both guardian and companion, a symbol of innocence that does not need validation from the outside world. The climbing vine grows freely, untethered to expectation, mirroring the way his thoughts spiral upward into spaces invisible to others. And the bird above is his spirit in flight—weightless, unconfined, always just beyond reach.
To me, he is not separate from reality, but more deeply immersed in another rhythm of existence—one that does not demand explanation, only acceptance. Watching him, I understood that presence is not always about participation; sometimes it is about carrying a whole universe within oneself.
King for a Day
Acrylic on 24 in. X 18 in. X 1.5 in. wrapped canvas
Kharagpur.. the small sleepy town where I grew up revolved around steam engines and associated workshops. The pay day used to be the 10th of each month and that was the day when the town changed colors and sounds for a day … for a day the lowly paid workshop workers got their ever increasing debts dues paid, for a day these folks had enough food on the table, for a day they were happy and they got drunk and danced thru the evening while loudspeakers blared the latest Bollywood songs.
I remember on those 10th days when we felt cozy in the warmth of yellow lights flooding our living rooms and crickets chirped outside, the night’s silence was pierced by the occasional drunk singing thru the streets while trying to find his way home thru the maze of street lights (that seemed to have suddenly moved into middle of the sidewalk!), and the bottles rolling thru the sidewalks or the occasional one slipping thru those hands shattered and splintered on the streets….
I don’t know why I have always been enamored by this one day ..I guess the contrast and the reality of the next day never left me … the slippery slope of fleeting happiness of that drunk … I often wonder if the memories of life or for that matter life itself is slowly knowingly slipping away despite our best efforts to keep holding it … should we care? Isn’t the beauty of happiness of the moment itself is in the fragility of the glass bottle .. even if he doesn’t find his way home, what’s the harm as the world is his oyster for a day and he is the king of the streets just for a night!
All my Love for you
Acrylic and oils on 18 in. X 24 in. X 1.5 in. wrapped canvas
I have always believed that love carries both its tenderness and its weight, that it blooms like roses yet beats with the gravity of a heart. In this painting, I placed myself within that paradox—between beauty and vulnerability, between the offering and the wound.
The woman holds roses, but they are not mere flowers; they are born out of her very heart. They spill upward, each petal both fragrant and fragile, yet rooted in something visceral and raw. To give love is never just to hand over blossoms—it is to surrender a part of one’s lifeblood, to reveal the tender pulse that sustains us.
Half her face hides behind this bouquet of heart-roses, for love is always partly concealment, partly revelation. We show what we dare, and yet what we hide speaks louder. The single, wide eye gazes outward, not in demand but in quiet knowing—love does not beg; it simply is.
The background drifts between dream and reality, memory and distance. Perhaps it is a night where words float like lost letters in the sky, where silence itself carries the weight of confession.
Memories of the Moon
Acrylic on 24 in. X 18 in. X 1.5 in. wrapped canvas
Memories and dreams mingle in the soft glow of the moonlit night, as I sit hand-in-hand with the love of my life .. making time to paint the hues of love in the blues of forgiven; yet not forgotten pains…. reflected on mind’s fleeting stream…
As a child, looking at the solitary lamp in our yard, I often wandered - isn’t the light of the flickering lamp in my mother's hand much more beautiful than the twinkling of stars in the distant sky? …… Of-course, as you grow older and learn to rebel…
"In the realm of hunger
Earth favors the prose, and the
Full moon feels like a scorched bread.”
However, one never overcomes the fascination for the full moon. In the world of love - lurking shadows of darkness gets hidden in its magical light. At that moment everyone and everything could be loved; when the boy sitting next to me recites -
“This hand has touched your face
Can I commit any sin, with this hand?”
That old moon still keeps us awake all night ... looking at its reflection in the creek that runs behind the backyard woods … my childhood, my youth, my impending old age all gets mixed up. At that instant.. the harsh reality of exile touches the windows of my dreams. The silent needless pain of remembering, sketches the pains of not-remembering .. sketches that go deep!
"Forget not that near our yard, the
Moon laments deep in the waters of the eternal well.”
Photographs and Memories
Oils on 18 in. X 24 in. X 1.5 in. wrapped canvas
Had I walked a little farther,
I would have gathered more images;
so many stories I never told you…
And still, I walk,
still, I capture frames,
still, I whisper stories to you.
I gave up writing letters before you left,
but with my brush I write only to you,
searching only for you.
If I walk a little farther,
I may touch you—find your reflection;
for in my stories, you are me.
-Prantik Sinha
Uprooted
Acrylic on 30 in. X 24 in. X 1.5 in. wrapped canvas
This painting was born from a quiet ache inside me—the ache of separation, of carrying roots that no longer touch the soil they once belonged to. In The Uprooted, I painted myself as both woman and tree, because I often feel suspended between two worlds: one that shaped me, and another where I now stand, searching for grounding.
The roots in this work reach outward, but they do not hold. They symbolize memory, ancestry, and a sense of home that exists more in the heart than in the earth. The closed eyes are not of sleep, but of listening inward—listening to the whispers of places I can no longer touch, yet which still live within me.
To be uprooted is to carry both loss and possibility. It is to grieve the soil left behind, yet to discover resilience in unexpected terrains. The crumbling tree, the fading colors, and the quiet flight of birds all mirror the delicate balance between mourning and hope, fragility and transformation.
Through this painting, I wanted to express that uprootedness is not just absence—it is also a state of becoming. It reminds me that even when torn from the ground, the essence of who we are travels with us, seeking new ways to take root, to endure, and to grow.
The Ring
Acrylic on 24 in. X 30 in. X 1.5 in. wrapped canvas
On April 8, 2024, I stood beneath the sky as day surrendered to night and the cosmos unveiled its hidden face. The solar eclipse was not merely an astronomical event—it was a revelation, a reminder that even the most ordinary light can be eclipsed, and in that obscurity, the infinite reveals itself.
This painting is my attempt to hold that fleeting moment, though I know words and colors inevitably fall short. The swirling darkness around the sun became a portal—an eye of the universe gazing back at me. Stars appeared like whispers of eternity, reminding me that even in absence, light is never lost, only hidden.
Figures of love, memory, and spirit emerged within me: the dove of peace, the flame of the lantern, the dance of fire and air. They are not literal, but metaphors—bridges my mind built to cross the gap between the physical and the metaphysical. In that silence, I felt time collapse; I was both infinitesimal and infinite, a witness to something close to the divine. It seemed all sentient beings on this earth were merged into that infinite.
This work is not just a recollection, but a meditation—a way of painting the unpaintable, of giving form to the unspeakable awe that bridges science and spirituality. For a moment, the veil thinned, and I understood: the cosmos is not beyond us, it is within us.
I paint because I cannot fully explain, yet in these strokes I come close to demystifying what is otherwise ineffable—an encounter with the sacred written in shadow and light.
Wriju's World
Acrylic on 18 in. X 24 in. X 1.5 in. wrapped canvas
I met my nephew again after many years, at a wedding filled with noise, laughter, and countless voices braided together. Yet within that sea of commotion, he stood apart—untouched, unshaken, quietly drifting into a world only he could inhabit.
This painting is my attempt to enter, if only briefly, the sanctum of his solitude. The black lamb resting on his shoulder is both guardian and companion, a symbol of innocence that does not need validation from the outside world. The climbing vine grows freely, untethered to expectation, mirroring the way his thoughts spiral upward into spaces invisible to others. And the bird above is his spirit in flight—weightless, unconfined, always just beyond reach.
To me, he is not separate from reality, but more deeply immersed in another rhythm of existence—one that does not demand explanation, only acceptance. Watching him, I understood that presence is not always about participation; sometimes it is about carrying a whole universe within oneself.
King for a Day
Acrylic on 24 in. X 18 in. X 1.5 in. wrapped canvas
Kharagpur.. the small sleepy town where I grew up revolved around steam engines and associated workshops. The pay day used to be the 10th of each month and that was the day when the town changed colors and sounds for a day … for a day the lowly paid workshop workers got their ever increasing debts dues paid, for a day these folks had enough food on the table, for a day they were happy and they got drunk and danced thru the evening while loudspeakers blared the latest Bollywood songs.
I remember on those 10th days when we felt cozy in the warmth of yellow lights flooding our living rooms and crickets chirped outside, the night’s silence was pierced by the occasional drunk singing thru the streets while trying to find his way home thru the maze of street lights (that seemed to have suddenly moved into middle of the sidewalk!), and the bottles rolling thru the sidewalks or the occasional one slipping thru those hands shattered and splintered on the streets….
I don’t know why I have always been enamored by this one day ..I guess the contrast and the reality of the next day never left me … the slippery slope of fleeting happiness of that drunk … I often wonder if the memories of life or for that matter life itself is slowly knowingly slipping away despite our best efforts to keep holding it … should we care? Isn’t the beauty of happiness of the moment itself is in the fragility of the glass bottle .. even if he doesn’t find his way home, what’s the harm as the world is his oyster for a day and he is the king of the streets just for a night!
All my Love for you
Acrylic and oils on 18 in. X 24 in. X 1.5 in. wrapped canvas
I have always believed that love carries both its tenderness and its weight, that it blooms like roses yet beats with the gravity of a heart. In this painting, I placed myself within that paradox—between beauty and vulnerability, between the offering and the wound.
The woman holds roses, but they are not mere flowers; they are born out of her very heart. They spill upward, each petal both fragrant and fragile, yet rooted in something visceral and raw. To give love is never just to hand over blossoms—it is to surrender a part of one’s lifeblood, to reveal the tender pulse that sustains us.
Half her face hides behind this bouquet of heart-roses, for love is always partly concealment, partly revelation. We show what we dare, and yet what we hide speaks louder. The single, wide eye gazes outward, not in demand but in quiet knowing—love does not beg; it simply is.
The background drifts between dream and reality, memory and distance. Perhaps it is a night where words float like lost letters in the sky, where silence itself carries the weight of confession.
Memories of the Moon
Acrylic on 24 in. X 18 in. X 1.5 in. wrapped canvas
Memories and dreams mingle in the soft glow of the moonlit night, as I sit hand-in-hand with the love of my life .. making time to paint the hues of love in the blues of forgiven; yet not forgotten pains…. reflected on mind’s fleeting stream…
As a child, looking at the solitary lamp in our yard, I often wandered - isn’t the light of the flickering lamp in my mother's hand much more beautiful than the twinkling of stars in the distant sky? …… Of-course, as you grow older and learn to rebel…
"In the realm of hunger
Earth favors the prose, and the
Full moon feels like a scorched bread.”
However, one never overcomes the fascination for the full moon. In the world of love - lurking shadows of darkness gets hidden in its magical light. At that moment everyone and everything could be loved; when the boy sitting next to me recites -
“This hand has touched your face
Can I commit any sin, with this hand?”
That old moon still keeps us awake all night ... looking at its reflection in the creek that runs behind the backyard woods … my childhood, my youth, my impending old age all gets mixed up. At that instant.. the harsh reality of exile touches the windows of my dreams. The silent needless pain of remembering, sketches the pains of not-remembering .. sketches that go deep!
"Forget not that near our yard, the
Moon laments deep in the waters of the eternal well.”
Photographs and Memories
Oils on 18 in. X 24 in. X 1.5 in. wrapped canvas
Had I walked a little farther,
I would have gathered more images;
so many stories I never told you…
And still, I walk,
still, I capture frames,
still, I whisper stories to you.
I gave up writing letters before you left,
but with my brush I write only to you,
searching only for you.
If I walk a little farther,
I may touch you—find your reflection;
for in my stories, you are me.
-Prantik Sinha
Uprooted
Acrylic on 30 in. X 24 in. X 1.5 in. wrapped canvas
This painting was born from a quiet ache inside me—the ache of separation, of carrying roots that no longer touch the soil they once belonged to. In The Uprooted, I painted myself as both woman and tree, because I often feel suspended between two worlds: one that shaped me, and another where I now stand, searching for grounding.
The roots in this work reach outward, but they do not hold. They symbolize memory, ancestry, and a sense of home that exists more in the heart than in the earth. The closed eyes are not of sleep, but of listening inward—listening to the whispers of places I can no longer touch, yet which still live within me.
To be uprooted is to carry both loss and possibility. It is to grieve the soil left behind, yet to discover resilience in unexpected terrains. The crumbling tree, the fading colors, and the quiet flight of birds all mirror the delicate balance between mourning and hope, fragility and transformation.
Through this painting, I wanted to express that uprootedness is not just absence—it is also a state of becoming. It reminds me that even when torn from the ground, the essence of who we are travels with us, seeking new ways to take root, to endure, and to grow.
The Ring
Acrylic on 24 in. X 30 in. X 1.5 in. wrapped canvas
On April 8, 2024, I stood beneath the sky as day surrendered to night and the cosmos unveiled its hidden face. The solar eclipse was not merely an astronomical event—it was a revelation, a reminder that even the most ordinary light can be eclipsed, and in that obscurity, the infinite reveals itself.
This painting is my attempt to hold that fleeting moment, though I know words and colors inevitably fall short. The swirling darkness around the sun became a portal—an eye of the universe gazing back at me. Stars appeared like whispers of eternity, reminding me that even in absence, light is never lost, only hidden.
Figures of love, memory, and spirit emerged within me: the dove of peace, the flame of the lantern, the dance of fire and air. They are not literal, but metaphors—bridges my mind built to cross the gap between the physical and the metaphysical. In that silence, I felt time collapse; I was both infinitesimal and infinite, a witness to something close to the divine. It seemed all sentient beings on this earth were merged into that infinite.
This work is not just a recollection, but a meditation—a way of painting the unpaintable, of giving form to the unspeakable awe that bridges science and spirituality. For a moment, the veil thinned, and I understood: the cosmos is not beyond us, it is within us.
I paint because I cannot fully explain, yet in these strokes I come close to demystifying what is otherwise ineffable—an encounter with the sacred written in shadow and light.
Wriju's World
Acrylic on 18 in. X 24 in. X 1.5 in. wrapped canvas
I met my nephew again after many years, at a wedding filled with noise, laughter, and countless voices braided together. Yet within that sea of commotion, he stood apart—untouched, unshaken, quietly drifting into a world only he could inhabit.
This painting is my attempt to enter, if only briefly, the sanctum of his solitude. The black lamb resting on his shoulder is both guardian and companion, a symbol of innocence that does not need validation from the outside world. The climbing vine grows freely, untethered to expectation, mirroring the way his thoughts spiral upward into spaces invisible to others. And the bird above is his spirit in flight—weightless, unconfined, always just beyond reach.
To me, he is not separate from reality, but more deeply immersed in another rhythm of existence—one that does not demand explanation, only acceptance. Watching him, I understood that presence is not always about participation; sometimes it is about carrying a whole universe within oneself.
bottom of page