Mother Nature, the unknown artist, paints without signature. I still remember a song which I heard during my childhood and motivated me to preach her as my mentor.

Mother Nature rises before language, mixes pigments from rain and soil, and lays color where memory and reason cannot reach. Dawn is her tentative sketch, thin washes of pearly light over sleeping fields while dusk is the long, confident stroke that pulls the day's story to a close. She works with a patience that mocks our clocks, composing canvases that insist we slow down and see.

Mother Nature owns a a studio which has no walls, river beds are her palettes, winds her brushes, seedlings her tiny apprentices, me included. She experiments in silence, an orchestra of indifferent miracles. She lets moss reclaim the trunk of an old tree, letting lily pads settle like small green islands.

Where humanity prizes authorship and credit, she gives freely, anonymous and exacting. A single blade of grass, trembling with dew, is both a note and a manifesto: smallness need not mean insignificance.

I still remember the song "Ye koun Chtrkar hai" That you can hear on YouTube but I am not sure how many of you will understand because that's in Hindi Language.

This song is from the 1967 film Boond Jo Ban Gayi Moti. It describes the beauty of nature and the marvelous artistry of its Creator.

Here are the complete lyrics of this lovely song from YouTube:

Who is this artist? Who is this artist!
Upon the lush green earth, this vast blue sky—
This blue sky where the wind drifts, carrying the palanquin of clouds;
Behold the directions, vibrant with color,
Radiating with immense exuberance;
Who has adorned every single flower
With such exquisite beauty? Who is this artist?
Who is this artist!
The mountain peaks stand steadfast like ascetics,
The valleys wind like serpents, and there stand the deodar trees.
This natural vista seems like a marvel born of a poet's imagination.

The lyrics of this timeless song beautifully capture the splendor of nature and the extraordinary artistry of the Creator, the Mother Nature herself.

To call it beauty is to name only the surface. The artist in the wild renders contrasts: the fierce burn of sunset over a flooded paddy undercuts tender green; the soft lullaby of rain arrives on the heels of a river’s sudden, necessary swell. Her palette includes decay as well as bloom.

Fallen leaves, waterlogged soil, the stooped branch bending under fruit, each tells the same quiet lesson: creation and dissolution are not opposites but collaborators in an endless composition.

Nature's work teaches humility. We stand before an ancient forest and feel small not because we are diminished, but because our frames are too narrow for such largeness. We learn to listen to subtler tones, the hush between birdcalls, the wet hush that turns a stream into a mirror of sky. In these margins the artist whispers that meaning grows where attention is given.

This anonymous creator does not hurry to be admired. She trusts seasons and slow returns, the patience of roots and the courage of sprouts. She invites us to apprentice: to walk more slowly through groves, to watch the improbable blue at a pond’s edge, the stubborn wildflower peeking through a field path. In that noticing we become collaborators, holding wonder instead of snapping it like a photograph.

So when you next witness the gentle order of a forest floor or the indifferent generosity of a river, remember the artist’s anonymity. Praise not the hand but the work, and let gratitude teach you to keep looking, because the world continues to be painted, endlessly, wordlessly, by a genius who asks for nothing in return.

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