Updated: Jan 24
I saw his eyes dilate. He was on the brink of letting himself show. He was right there.
He caught me searching and hid again in a blink. He managed to look away buying himself just the time to re-gather. It faded even before he could make his sincere most appearance. We had been locked in that truck for more than 6 hours now. And, I think I had fallen for his silence.
He was a mosaic waiting to be deciphered in minutest attention. So, I decided to deliver my story first hoping that will make him comfortable.
Would you like to know about my place? I am not sure if we speak the same language.
I do know you are listening.
MY PLACE IS SHADES OF YELLOW
with blue music,
an over-bright sun,
consistent dry winds,
shades of Khejris and Neem.
If I could express I would try.
But I am not capable enough. I am grateful
for they have welcomed us in their space. The only contribution I think we humans have made is delivered to us straight to our skins and senses. With every molecule of dirt, sand and heat on our bodies delivered to us by these kind winds, our human stories and memories circulate. I am glad they keep us alive and we are sustained. Everywhere here you will find good listeners.
There is a young boy
who walks the camels back home
Kalyan, he is called.
He has yellow cheeks, a sharp nose, 3 feet and a two inches tall, have you seen him around? Asked a desperate father.
He was spotted soon, dusted and happy.
A misery slips down his left cheek as he speaks of his adventure in the dune hills.
This desert is his home.
See, do you see the pearl from his eye? it disappears before it could reach the corners of his hysterically laughing lips. With the smiles and salt being the only trail to follow back. But I guess you wouldn't want to follow back. Would you? I wonder all the time if I could be closely kind, and satiated with minimal like them. You know! The weather here is harsh. But it is comforting and familiar. Although from every two kilometres of linear distance in all three sixty degrees we witness changes in the medium. These are dialects. There is music in the quiet murmur of this place. Do you mind turning off the radio, please Mr kidnapper? I am sorry. It is interrupting my memory. Thank you for being considerate.
This is not even a good piece. I am not very proud of it. Still I will put it because I think failing shouldn't matter.
What is it about?
I do not know. I am creating a story by adding pieces whenever I can find time. The story will roll where ever my imagination takes it.