Reading "Gobhai’s genre” (In Memoriam, Parsiana, October 21, 2018) reignited a host of long dialogs on "why all art is but a straight line, gone astray.”
He was my neighbor for many, many years in our younger days. We conversed by opening and leaning out of our respective windows. I have the pencil drawings he gave me, on the walls of my home in Khandala. They still grip my attention in their fragile intensity and the use of the minimal.
Gobhai’s art was for himself. I often remarked, "My eyes are the artist, not you!” to which he roared in agreement.
His voice continues.
NAWSHIR KHURODY
ndkhurody@gmail.com
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