Letter to Clouds

Darling Clouds,

Since you are reading it, you must understand I believe in magic. How else could I otherwise be here, where I am, sitting with my back to the early sun, sipping my familiar morning tea, toes curling up in sudden chills of whip-like cold breeze and yet, writing to you? For the longest possible month of waiting where I believed I would meet you in Darjeeling, here we are in Shillong. They call this the Abode of Clouds. And yes, how bountiful your fluffy cottons seem in your lively exuberance. Like Little Things, the best part of you is that you are many blending into one.

It is the festival of colours in the plains today, or may be it was yesterday. This is the best part of a vacation -- one loses track of days and dates. I am having one of the best colour shows of my life ever, with you. I wish I could tell them who speak of organic shades and perfumed powders that there is colour in the sky which needs to be celebrated festively. Yes, the smell of the colour down in the plains is very sexy. But nothing to match up to your breathtaking spectacle.

I particularly enjoy your blind man's buff games with the sun, moon or the mighty peaks. One moment they believe you are there, and the next you are not. I tried counting your points, and yes you were heading by a very competitive margin. The colours that your whites adapt from them makes me believe in the joy of sharing, and openness. I love it how you are capable of changing shapes and being whatever or whoever I wish you to be.

How must I appear to you? One tiny enthusiast from somewhere down the citylights who greedily gulps down all that you have to offer? Yes. To bulk secret fund from where I extract necessary medicine whenever required. Do you know that I wish to recline on you and travel? Do you know that I love our conspiracy of sending letters to many who do not know how they reached. The rain sure had a look of disbelief. 

In the many friends I have made over a period of time, people laugh when I say one of my most consistent is you. They think you are a character of change. You are what you see. I often love to indulge in believing that you are my favourite alter-ego. 

You are what you see,

K.