A dreamy, drizzly morning. Pearl-drops and hill-shimmer on leaves and horizon. The sky looks like mountain peaks breathed on a cold slab of glassy air. Clouds swirl as if a pine incense were lit somewhere, deep in a forest; by a muddy river that sparkled right where it tickled a rock playfully.
I walk into the living room to see all this – a morning awakening like the notes in Sufi music. Simple, surreal, spiritual.
Time passes. Slowly, I see the magic realism of the morning receding.
Later, J and I leave for office. The moment we step outside her building onto the common compound, a dizzy, cool wind rustles us a little bit. As if we were trees. I think I tell J to use her camera more often.
J responds. She tells me of this time in Delhi when she saw a woman from the media with a badge pinned strategically above her breasts. The badge said, ‘Press’.
She laughed – doubling over, no less. I shook my head dismally at first, but smirked all the same.
Goodbye, my morning of valley songs. You were good while you lasted.