The doors were made of glass. Glass revolving doors, opening unto a land of waves. The sand leading upto it appeared carpet-like, dense in design, coloured in a wild pattern of blue and gold. On the other side, a road weaved in the prosperity of wilderness. As Nikhil walked on it, he stumbled upon a house growing on the crossroads of habitation. A beautiful house. Straight leaves on white branches. And Meira. In all of her broad, badminton shoulders and long, deep neckline, her muted, flowing hair splashing against defined jawlines, as tides do. Meira Bose of holidays. Meira Bose of his past. Meira Bose of dreams.
Nikhil Roy met her in another landscape though. Of peaks and valleys and accompanying rivers. He in his rugged, unkept beard and sturdy Timberland shoes, trekking in his black North Face, freshly back from Standford with a renewed interest in his native highlands. Stacked with courage and passion, he made that soft gesture of a whiff of a hand when she was smoking in her car. He was inside his. Both their windows down. And desperately trying to convey that the smoke was bad for the mountain air.
Or was it not in the University campus that they had struck a chord? In dreams, things look as if a divine hand poured a glass of lukewarm water on hurriedly done oil pastel shapes. They do not dissolve, they become gentle -- the gentleness of intimacy, of knowing each other since a time when they were separated into two forms of colour. Nikhil walked past sunlit corridors of greetings, looking for Meira. There was an incompleteness in the kiss of the last evening. In that secluded classroom, Nikhil against the wall and Meira stroking his hair suavely floated through waves and into sunset woods and past high snows. Meira was at the canteen, in her corner, knees up to her chin as she listened to a group of juniors belting number after number for her. He smiled.
As they walked, hand in hand, on the cobbled streets crowded with cafes, it most certainly felt like Istanbul. It could well be Prague too. Musicians busily created perfect cirles of grassy clouds and notes that stayed within any sense which cared to linger a little longer than longer. It began raining. Nikhil grasped her hand and ran for shelter under a shop. She ran along. And then walked out. Into the street of rain, drenching alongside trams and tramps. She called out to Nikhil.
They married in the Golden Temple at Amritsar. It was an unusal ceremony of affairs as looked into each other's reflection in the water and became one in soul. That full moon night the gold of the soil caressed the silver of the sky. It was very cold and like runaways from hostels, they cooped up under a roadside bonfire of drunken melodies.
The seaside house turned into a swaying tree that bared its leaves on the carpet to add colours and motif to its existing exquisiteness. Meira saw Nikhil turn back towards the glass door which revolved once more. He walked out of it, straight into her waiting arms. She turned around to kiss him and found his shape on the bed.
A monumental remain of a momentary dream.
Nikhil Roy met her in another landscape though. Of peaks and valleys and accompanying rivers. He in his rugged, unkept beard and sturdy Timberland shoes, trekking in his black North Face, freshly back from Standford with a renewed interest in his native highlands. Stacked with courage and passion, he made that soft gesture of a whiff of a hand when she was smoking in her car. He was inside his. Both their windows down. And desperately trying to convey that the smoke was bad for the mountain air.
Or was it not in the University campus that they had struck a chord? In dreams, things look as if a divine hand poured a glass of lukewarm water on hurriedly done oil pastel shapes. They do not dissolve, they become gentle -- the gentleness of intimacy, of knowing each other since a time when they were separated into two forms of colour. Nikhil walked past sunlit corridors of greetings, looking for Meira. There was an incompleteness in the kiss of the last evening. In that secluded classroom, Nikhil against the wall and Meira stroking his hair suavely floated through waves and into sunset woods and past high snows. Meira was at the canteen, in her corner, knees up to her chin as she listened to a group of juniors belting number after number for her. He smiled.
As they walked, hand in hand, on the cobbled streets crowded with cafes, it most certainly felt like Istanbul. It could well be Prague too. Musicians busily created perfect cirles of grassy clouds and notes that stayed within any sense which cared to linger a little longer than longer. It began raining. Nikhil grasped her hand and ran for shelter under a shop. She ran along. And then walked out. Into the street of rain, drenching alongside trams and tramps. She called out to Nikhil.
They married in the Golden Temple at Amritsar. It was an unusal ceremony of affairs as looked into each other's reflection in the water and became one in soul. That full moon night the gold of the soil caressed the silver of the sky. It was very cold and like runaways from hostels, they cooped up under a roadside bonfire of drunken melodies.
The seaside house turned into a swaying tree that bared its leaves on the carpet to add colours and motif to its existing exquisiteness. Meira saw Nikhil turn back towards the glass door which revolved once more. He walked out of it, straight into her waiting arms. She turned around to kiss him and found his shape on the bed.
A monumental remain of a momentary dream.
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