A farewell of my colour

Deep in the visceral hollow of Yucatan, the sky turned cinnamon. Marshy waters and placid lakes stirred restlessly. High, wild reeds swayed in a wind that was undecided about whither it should blow. And watching this tranquil disquiet was Rupert, a stunning, white heron.

Rupert was handsome yet lonely. He glided like a fragrance. You could see a trail of silky heron flaps when he flew across the sky. He flew perfectly and he flew alone.

One evening, he was hopping around in a lake to see if the water cockled the same way every single time. It soothed that raging emptiness inside him – the routines of ripples. And then…and then….

He saw Shamin, that blazing pink Chilean flamingo. Suddenly, the marshy clot of Yucatan, that had hitherto floated blandly through the world, peeled its final scab and became raw. Shamin had no business being there. Shamin belonged to that bird-world of grotesque openness; where wings pierced through clouds and blotted suns and tore the skies savagely.

Yet, Rupert fell in love. He could see himself flying with a dark pink bolt of thunder.

Shamin, too, was fascinated with Rupert. She’d seen a simple panel on her wall of stained glass. And she was tempted – in a way chocolate probably gets tempted to taste vanilla. She swooped across, in her stark pink grandeur, enveloped that body of white satin, and kissed him; and Rupert’s white feathers were stained with Shamin’s kiss. His feathers were now the color of a crimson that felt shy, of a scarlet that got subdued, of a red that got silent. His feathers were now that shade of pink.

And that’s the shade of pink of the roses and carnations I bought last night; the last bunch of flowers I’d buy from Mumbai before I left it in a couple of days.

The florist wrapped up my drops of fantasy in sepia-hued newspaper, and I carried my beautiful goodbye in full bloom.

That is the color of my farewell – a flamingo’s kiss and a heron’s blush.