appeared over the horizon. I said it was beginning to get dark, not realizing that his world had darkened already.
A hundred thoughts swirled in my head as I walked back to the cottage. In the growing dark, the silhouettes of trees appeared slightly diffused. I looked askance at them and increased my pace: a ghost could descend from one and trouble me with its lonesome tale. When the woods were behind me, I saw the stars enter the sky and make interesting designs. The dome of the club glowed softly. I thought of having a drink.
Days went on in much the same way. Time here was a pointless intrusion, and one would do all too well to stay clear of its awareness.
While writing one day an image grew on the page. Two forms wrestling on the floor, serpentwined, tearing and eating each other in a room luminous with heat. Now her warmth is entering me and so is the cold of the stone underneath and yet neither can fathom my depth. Later we are on the terrace. The sun is a useless orange disc over the horizon about to slide through the last chink in it. Nearby a kite flutters with wanton zeal. A tear has burst over my cheek. She is taking it on her tongue.
The image left me ill at ease. A longing had set in, a longing that grew with each moment, a longing that had traversed many a mountain and landscape, traversed the stretch of time, of life itself: a longing to touch her again. I had not thought of her in a while, but, for once, I felt she was close by. Perhaps this very moment she was wandering through the bazaar.
I walked out of the cottage into a slow wind. The sun had been anemic since morning, but now it was completely lost in the mistthat clouded the sky and lingered over the mountaintops. From there it leisurely crawled down into the valley consuming all that obstructed its march. Soon I was climbing the hill that lay at the other end of the settlement. From there I could see but the last three cottages, for the mist had handsomely spread everywhere and chloroformed the pines.
Following a rough mountain track, I rounded that hill and the next. And after toiling for nearly an hour I came out into a clearing through which flowed a stream of crystalline water. It cascaded down the slope at the far end. At its bottom were very fine white pebbles. Tiny blue fish swam in it unaware of the happenings in another medium. They moved with a swiftness that excited the eye. The stream appeared to originate from under a huge rock covered in moss behind which swayed a few trees with purple flowers.
The mist had – almost incredibly – left the place untouched. Close by was a bamboo grove through which jutted wild yellow flowers. It was here that I entirely exorcised the phantom that plagued me. Into a corner I receded, resting my back against the tall, slender stems and looked above at the piece of sky left me. About me, birds and squirrels filled the air with their timeless melodies, and nearby the tiny blue fish sent tiny, soundless ripples to the surface of the stream.
X
It was one of those days that take birth prematurely, that once born neither breathe in the light nor in the dark, hanging aimlessly between the two. All day long, damp, solemn winds had been descending from the clouds – that had thrown the city into a perpetual twilight – and hinting at rain. The streets were quiet and gloomy, and not many people walked them. Traffic was sparse, its noise muffled by the moisture in the air. All in all, it was a day soaked in melancholy.
By this time I had spent two months in London. My only regular outdoor trips were to the neighbourhood library. At times I accompanied my sister to the supermarket, while at other times I went with her for a drink to her favourite club off Tottenham Court Road.
I had neither money nor debts, and was quite content to idle away my days reading and listening to music. That is when I began to think that there was something going on between books and music, jazz music to be specific.
A book is
A hundred thoughts swirled in my head as I walked back to the cottage. In the growing dark, the silhouettes of trees appeared slightly diffused. I looked askance at them and increased my pace: a ghost could descend from one and trouble me with its lonesome tale. When the woods were behind me, I saw the stars enter the sky and make interesting designs. The dome of the club glowed softly. I thought of having a drink.
Days went on in much the same way. Time here was a pointless intrusion, and one would do all too well to stay clear of its awareness.
While writing one day an image grew on the page. Two forms wrestling on the floor, serpentwined, tearing and eating each other in a room luminous with heat. Now her warmth is entering me and so is the cold of the stone underneath and yet neither can fathom my depth. Later we are on the terrace. The sun is a useless orange disc over the horizon about to slide through the last chink in it. Nearby a kite flutters with wanton zeal. A tear has burst over my cheek. She is taking it on her tongue.
The image left me ill at ease. A longing had set in, a longing that grew with each moment, a longing that had traversed many a mountain and landscape, traversed the stretch of time, of life itself: a longing to touch her again. I had not thought of her in a while, but, for once, I felt she was close by. Perhaps this very moment she was wandering through the bazaar.
I walked out of the cottage into a slow wind. The sun had been anemic since morning, but now it was completely lost in the mistthat clouded the sky and lingered over the mountaintops. From there it leisurely crawled down into the valley consuming all that obstructed its march. Soon I was climbing the hill that lay at the other end of the settlement. From there I could see but the last three cottages, for the mist had handsomely spread everywhere and chloroformed the pines.
Following a rough mountain track, I rounded that hill and the next. And after toiling for nearly an hour I came out into a clearing through which flowed a stream of crystalline water. It cascaded down the slope at the far end. At its bottom were very fine white pebbles. Tiny blue fish swam in it unaware of the happenings in another medium. They moved with a swiftness that excited the eye. The stream appeared to originate from under a huge rock covered in moss behind which swayed a few trees with purple flowers.
The mist had – almost incredibly – left the place untouched. Close by was a bamboo grove through which jutted wild yellow flowers. It was here that I entirely exorcised the phantom that plagued me. Into a corner I receded, resting my back against the tall, slender stems and looked above at the piece of sky left me. About me, birds and squirrels filled the air with their timeless melodies, and nearby the tiny blue fish sent tiny, soundless ripples to the surface of the stream.
X
It was one of those days that take birth prematurely, that once born neither breathe in the light nor in the dark, hanging aimlessly between the two. All day long, damp, solemn winds had been descending from the clouds – that had thrown the city into a perpetual twilight – and hinting at rain. The streets were quiet and gloomy, and not many people walked them. Traffic was sparse, its noise muffled by the moisture in the air. All in all, it was a day soaked in melancholy.
By this time I had spent two months in London. My only regular outdoor trips were to the neighbourhood library. At times I accompanied my sister to the supermarket, while at other times I went with her for a drink to her favourite club off Tottenham Court Road.
I had neither money nor debts, and was quite content to idle away my days reading and listening to music. That is when I began to think that there was something going on between books and music, jazz music to be specific.
A book is
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