I had enough madness to keep my train door open and stand the blast of cold air for three full minutes at 6.45 in the morning. This post is about those three minutes, when time stood FROZEN, just like me at the door of the train.
Ice cold tears laid the boundaries of my eye even as the train chugged along. The mist caught my eye first. Where the green of the paddy fields ended in the distance, the white of the mist started. It hung on to the greens like a frail old lady- beautiful, unhurried, serene.
The green suddenly turned deathly brown – the color of a very dead land. The land was brown, the land was dry and the land was lifeless- at least for another few seconds. Then among the dead brown tree stumps, there appeared white and then bright orange, all canvassed against the misty fairness.
The whites were cheap little tarpaulin huts, while the bright orange gave them food. It glowed under the cooking pots and outstretched brown hands in search of warmth. The image soon apparated (pardon JK Rowling for that word) and another pleasing, yet dead landscape materialized which left me truly wishing that I had film in my camera.
The land was red as blood, vast numbers of deserted thatched huts and brick kilns adding to the hue. One kiln stood far away, apart from the rest, smoking, as if against its own free will. The smoke, as it left the safe warmth of its mothers womb into the cold world outside, lost strength and withered into nothingness. Knowing it to be a losing battle, the mother kiln continued pushing out its smoke children, as if to prove a point…
The cold had reached my bones and I had to risk falling off, my hands were frozen. I pulled myself in and let the door shut in front of me with a bang. My connection with the misty speeding world outside was broken, I was once again inside the safe domicile of the moving train…
Ice cold tears laid the boundaries of my eye even as the train chugged along. The mist caught my eye first. Where the green of the paddy fields ended in the distance, the white of the mist started. It hung on to the greens like a frail old lady- beautiful, unhurried, serene.
The green suddenly turned deathly brown – the color of a very dead land. The land was brown, the land was dry and the land was lifeless- at least for another few seconds. Then among the dead brown tree stumps, there appeared white and then bright orange, all canvassed against the misty fairness.
The whites were cheap little tarpaulin huts, while the bright orange gave them food. It glowed under the cooking pots and outstretched brown hands in search of warmth. The image soon apparated (pardon JK Rowling for that word) and another pleasing, yet dead landscape materialized which left me truly wishing that I had film in my camera.
The land was red as blood, vast numbers of deserted thatched huts and brick kilns adding to the hue. One kiln stood far away, apart from the rest, smoking, as if against its own free will. The smoke, as it left the safe warmth of its mothers womb into the cold world outside, lost strength and withered into nothingness. Knowing it to be a losing battle, the mother kiln continued pushing out its smoke children, as if to prove a point…
The cold had reached my bones and I had to risk falling off, my hands were frozen. I pulled myself in and let the door shut in front of me with a bang. My connection with the misty speeding world outside was broken, I was once again inside the safe domicile of the moving train…
2 comments:
brilliant..u painted with words there
LOVED this one!
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