A drab weather beaten school bag hung out to dry in the clothes line along with a pair of green and white checkered uniforms, in the front yard of a dilapidated old house, marking the imminent end of summer holidays.
A solitary tree, in the middle of a field, that seemed to have burst into fierce orange-red blossoms, much to its surprise than anyone else’s.
An old couple standing at a bus stop in companionable silence, holding hands. I wonder if we will last that long.
An unremarkable house, with garlanded pictures of ancestors hung in rows, filling up the walls of the front porch. Long gone, dutifully remembered.
Ancient tamarind trees lining the roads on end, silent spectators of the centuries past. Magnificent yet melancholic.
The occasional tall and embarrassed looking buildings in loud, incongruous yellows and blues.
An unhinged, rusted iron gate with a contradicting patch of cheerful pink four o‘clock roses growing beside it.
A wrinkled old lady, bent over with the burden of yesterdays, walking barefoot at an unhurried pace, on the hot tarmac road, carrying a pail of water. This is to someone who keeps asking me the point of life. What do you think her point in life is? Beats me!
Sitting by the window, as the bus moved hurriedly through streets and highways, among the many images that blurred past, one entwined with another, their boundaries barely discernible, here are the few I managed to snatch and stash away, before they got lost in a series of liminal moments, to ponder upon, later.
