I was on the terrace around six in the morning. The plan was to get an early start to the yoga, because I really have a lot to finish today. I have to go to Saki Naka and Bandra and pack for a trip to Bangalore tomorrow. There is tons to do.
But the terrace looked so lovely. It was littered with dried leaves and had little puddles of water, courtesy the storm last night. These puddles looked blue-black in places and almost purplish-brown in others. The leaves, wilted and astrewn, looked like tired children at an amusement park. They were sulking to go home and sleep. Clearly, the wind and the rain had had a wild time here. And the guests were clearly pooped.
I pushed the agenda of yoga for a couple of hours later. Made a cup of tea, cosied up on the sofa and watched the sky molt and melt into different colours. First, the sharp violet tinges got erased to a soft flamengo pink. Then some edges of clouds unfurled to a cottony whiteness. And then, remarkably,the whole expanse moved to a subdued green. It seemed as if a beautiful messof algae had spread across it.
It brought to mind a wonderful walk I'd taken in Goa. It was to Fort Aguada from the hotel where I had put up. On the way, there's a church. One portion of it overlooks the sea. That day, I bent over its bleached white-hot crumbling ruins, trying to see the waves and trap the gorgeous roar of the sea in my ears. The sea was a brilliant blue. I don't think one could get that evenness of tone and shade digitally, no matter how meticulously one tried. The blue was so clear, vibrant, and somehow, same, from one speck of the horizon to another.
There is such a witty paradox in the beauty that surrounds us.
Sometimes, the sea is sky-blue. Sometimes, the sky is sea-green.