The umbrellas are still out. The sky is crammed with clouds, fat and thin. The rains have been erratic. The streets are wet. Speeding vehicles splash water on the footpath. The backyard is muddy. The monsoon is unrelenting, though it should have been autumn now. It should have been cloudless, blue skies, the air laden with mellow quietude, and the thought of blooming catkins and slumbering fields making me want to run a long way away to the countryside, that’s the effect autumn has on me.
Though I have mostly lived in the cities I am not a city boy through-and-through. I am forever fascinated by the sound of the word ‘countryside’- it sounds very languid, and restful, and tranquil. And ‘city’ sounds sophisticated, and speedy, and machinelike. Don’t get me wrong, but I find the countryside irresistibly and indescribably beautiful.
The stretches of yellow and green fields and the scarecrows, the cluster of bamboo trees and the stacks of hay, the chocolate box mountains and the curving streams, the farms and the cottages, their low-rise wooden fences and the odd-shaped mossy lawns, the flocks of cranes and the fragrance of the wild flowers, the wide open spaces and the unhurried pace of life have a thing about them that never fails to enthrall me.
I am imagining waking up to the chirping of the birds, going for a long walk down the meandering paths, photographing the landscapes, watching the whistling train in the distance, picnicking on the riverbank, and witnessing the reddish light of the low-sun catching the universe at dusk.
I am so restless. I am breathlessly waiting for the rains to stop.
No comments:
Post a Comment