Blue-grey horizons dominate the plains, plateaus, valleys, and hills alike as the subcontinent is rejoicing in summer’s loosened grip. I am relieved by the dispersal of hot grief of summer, for it held traumatic memories of the past year. In a happy addition to the party, the muse has decided to whisper again in hushed murmurs of rain-soaked earth and liminality of purple fault lines of thunderstruck monsoon skies. I am but a pellucid ghost to the events of my surroundings – a mere observer of the vastness of experiences, to the flow of the whole range of human emotions. I am but a collective of stories of all the ancestors now called by a name. In certain moments, I am not even there anymore, happily lost in the rhythmic happenings rather than staying fixated.
The dreams of dirt are hidden in my subconscious like hungry beasts, demanding my attention, now so long averted by the inner turmoils …
