C'est La Vie....

Expectation was rife. Exaltation expected. Ebullience anticipated. The night was contained in the magnanimity of space.

As I browse through some pictures on the Internet, thoughts whirr in and out of my mind. The mountains in the pics, the brown-earthed valley dotted with green; coupled with the lazy afternoon sun peeping in, yet playing peek-a-boo with my chocolate coloured curtains, do more than just calm my not-so-calm mind. The kaleidoscope of rich tones only sets alight a blaze of yet more thoughts.

Dreams are not ones to recede quietly into the background; they emerge and re-emerge every time the mand goes off on a short adventure. They are like those little peaks that exist but you never knew they existed till you climbed one and saw eternity almost vanishing into itself.

Sometimes I wish I were not sitting here saddled by technology and I wish it was just the guzzling waters of a river tucked far away in some fruit orchard that trickled life into me, like the dream that whir past on lazy afternoons. Sometimes I wish it was just the cacophony of grasshoppers and frogs singing soulfully to the first rains on a heavy night. And as they soak in it, that would be music to my ears. Sometimes I wish it was the tinkle in the laughter of the children that signified the time of the day as I sat in a corner brewing coffee and listening to the womenfolk share their tales. Sometimes, I wish I could walk through my dreamscapes and hold the slow flowing bubbles of reality in my hand as they bobbed up and down, collided with each other, and tottered around like a bunch of fairies on their first outing.

Sometimes I wish I owned a palatial, ancestral home tucked far inside the greens of the Kerala countryside. I would sit on a wicker chair in the verandah, overlooking the trees and the river flowing through the orchard, sipping hot tea. Mornings would be just a haze of sights, smells, and sounds....the freshly-watered rusty earth, the jasmine being strung together by toothy old women sitting in the courtyard laughing and sharing stories about the antics of their grandchildren, the steaming idlis permeating the air with a warmth that can be both felt and tasted. And as the afternoon sun would peep into the warm, mahogany-laden dining room I would traverse miles and miles, all the while lying cosily under pristine, white sheets, letting the coconut trees sweep coolness into my room, and finally awaking with a song on my lips. As the day would draw to a close, I would find comfort in the honey dripping off the branches of the immodestly green mango trees laden with plump yellow fruits. I would count the bursting jackfruits, sucking mindlessly on tamarind strewn around carelessly by the wind. And when the inky blue skies would descend, I would return to a night of sloth and Jim Reevs singing in sync with the croaking frogs and the barking wild dogs.

Sometimes I wish it was a tiny, cozy cottage tucked far away in an obscure hill-station that I could call home. I would own a little shop next door selling knick-knacks, home-made chocolate, and bread. The red door of the shop with its bronze bell and chimes sould sing a mellow song every time someone would walk in through it. Children would be running through this door to buy candy and big yellow lollipops that I had made and kept in big, glass jars on a high shelf behind the counter. Women would walk in, eyeing this city-girl humming Norah Jones. I would welcome them with a warm cup of coffee every time they walked in bringing with them a cold gust of wind to this little shop warmed by a baked brick firepace. I would listen to their woes and the occasional snippets they would allow me with soem trepidation while serving them freshly soft bread everyday. Their husbands would eye me with suspicion yet wonder what a girl like me was doing in a town like this. My golden comma of a cat would purr with sloth every time I would cuddle it in my arms. And after the children would have had their day's share of peppermint flavored candy and the women would have bought the spices lying in sacks at a corner in the shop, I would pull down the blinds and make my way to the sweet, incense-filled cottage of mine for a night of knitting and some reading. And when the local doctor would come knocking at the door to ask me out for a cup of coffee, I would bat my eyelids and say, "I brew my own."

And when reality tiptoes to the doors of my mind and knocks surreptitiously, I pull the door wide open, embrace it with warmth and quote Pico Iyer - "The best trips, like the best love affairs, never really end."