January 23, 2012
Owls make noises here. Every night.
Isolation in abode of trees.
An old pine tree. We were neck to neck a dozen years ago. My growth stunted along the way.
Reeds. Bamboo thicket. In front of my old home. Futile attempts every day to shield the sun.
Trees on my path. Rural Kamrup.
I slept through this heaven on earth for a month, slouching in the backseat of the car, too tired at the end of the day. And one day, I peeked through the window as we crossed a rickety wooden bridge and turning into this lane, I drove through the most beautiful path in my life.
Narakachal Hill, Guwahati. Late evening. Long, quiet halt.
Fishermen wade through it with nets, and fishing hooks fling into it in unison. Busy mornings are followed by serene, crimson evenings. Rural Kamrup.