Pink is framing the horizon. She socializes there with the lavenders and blues, tempted to flirt to some romantic poetry. She is neither the moody haze of an indecisive shopper nor the brooding shyness of a wallflower. No, she is the unearthly, catchy enchantress. Mixing, she thinks she rather not be insignificant. She unravels herself in a bold, attractive display, so that the skies are all her, and even the somber, undisturbed waters hold her entire in every glowering molecule of every shimmering droplet. The blues and the lavenders of a late evening wither away, cowering before her sudden courage, and the egrets are awed. They survey her expansive brilliance on the late evening on their stilted legs, reasoning why they have turned victim to her flamboyant moods. The decision of pink is an unearthly demeanor for the skies to wear this season. And slowly, with the ripples that affect these waters to a sudden disturbance, suspiciously like in response, the egrets lift their feathers and rush to the horizon on wings that hold earnestly: waking, enthusiastic, infatuated. They rise, rise, rise and rise above, in a transcendent love. From a fleeting train, the beauty of the moment is witnessed, recorded and smiled at.
I have never seen a pink so bold, or marshlands so absolutely Moorish. I have never seen this from a train home, travelling alone, with just me, the marshlands and vagrant dreams for company. The writer scribbles a little into her books, but even the books don’t attract her like the skies outside her window do. She tries to sleep, but even repose cannot coax the tempted mind into opening her eyes to witness more of the melting pink, now persuaded into thawing. The egrets are still there. Surveying, stilted and out of the waters. Now, they are part of the skies, rising free. The waters have been painted, and the skies frozen in the cold. The writer is refusing to scribble anymore. I look outside, in a mild sort of way. Here, there is healing.
It helps to be young. It helps to be thirsting. It helps to find the wanderlust. But it’s best to go home. The flatlands run away, fleeing me like they were repulsed by my passivity, panicky sprints into the past I do not see. I do not tamper with their feelings; I only want to get lost. I remember the earlier shades of me: the somebody who used to get excited over random scenes like these. But yes, this is I, returning to her earlier self. Because the music on the hills await. Here, outside my window, there are endless, balding hills severely colored by pink’s fancy moods. Not so verdant, but pink today. Here, the egrets know their ways, and in this world of auspicious beginnings and soaring heights, there is an unburdened eye that collects an understanding. This is a sight I have been waiting to see. This is the sight. Because these pictures are not glaring computer screens, these egrets are not mechanized human beings, but much more than just postcards. Taking off into the eternal sky that holds everything and beyond. And as they rise and as they fly, that is what they tell me. That is what they tell me.
Evening trains and side lanes. Always lazy. I wonder the stars. I hear the telephone lines droop with the weight of all the conversations they carry, with the winds and sometimes with people's chitter-chatter, ferrying the whispered talks, burdened in between. A whoosh of thought. Then, I forget. The window, the lazy trains and I. Homeward bound. The world here in solitary, windy and rising free. And soon, I will be home.