What are these women carrying inside them?
Every time I paint a woman, I find myself wondering — what is she holding within her?
Is it joy, or the weight of unsaid words? Is it memories that refuse to fade, or dreams that never got their moment?
Their faces often seem calm, their eyes steady — but somewhere in the colors, there’s always a story pulsing beneath. A secret rhythm of resilience, tenderness, and hope.
Art has a way of speaking to us, long after the brush has left the canvas.​
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​When I first saw Amrita Sher-Gil’s Three Women, I couldn’t look away. There was something hauntingly quiet about it — three women sitting together, yet each lost in her own world. That silence spoke volumes. There’s a certain ache in her work—a quiet intensity that pulls you in. Her women are rooted yet distant, introspective yet present. They turn away, yet they share a space. Are they waiting? Dreaming? Holding thoughts too fragile to voice?
My own piece began with that lingering feeling—the silence, the stillness, the hidden narratives. I didn’t seek to replicate Sher-Gil’s work, but to continue the conversation she had started within me. My brush moved with the same quietude, yet it spoke my story. Each stroke, each pause, each shadow carried my interpretation of that unspoken language. Art, after all, is less about copying and more about connecting—across time, across minds, across experiences. ​
Through this painting, I found a way to honor her silence while exploring my own. The women remain, but the story now carries my voice as well. That feeling stayed with me, echoing in my mind like a soft hum I couldn’t ignore. It wasn’t just admiration; it was a dialogue. And so, I picked up my brush.
I tried to recreate that stillness in my own way — not as a copy, but as a conversation. My brush moved between their emotions and mine, between their gaze and my interpretation of what it meant to be seen and yet hold back so much. What are these women carrying inside them? Perhaps longing. Perhaps stories that never found words. Perhaps strength — quiet, contained, and constant. In them, I see fragments of us all — the versions of ourselves we protect, the emotions we live with, and the unspoken poetry that connects one woman to another.
