Transfixed at the Clouds

Clouds. Magnanimous. Drifting. Changing. Splashes of reflection. Still. Moving. Tugging.

I stand transfixed looking at the colour that play in front of my eyes. I am lost in the miracle that unfolds before me. The moving clouds spread in front of my eyes like ballerinas’ tiptoeing into the wide blue expanse of clear sky, dancing to the rhythm of serene music that quivers from the deep hollow bamboo flute.

I dissolve with the clouds. Etherised. Lost. Transfixed. The clouds change patters swiftly, in synchronous order. The patters are a wonder that spontaneously make the audience go on their feet, to give a standing ovation. Then quickly the synchronized patches fall like a glaze of snowflakes on an ember light Christmas tree. The delicate sprinkle of sugar spreads on cotton candy. An invisible artist appears spreading watercolours across the white canvas. Each stroke of watercolour is like a Rorschach ink blot. Santa the man with his long snow-white beard comes caring a bag full of calligraphy nibs and feathers, writing apocalyptic poetry across the translucent slate.

Staring at the play of colours is all for me to savour, in the grand consort of the mystical heavens. Tall haphazard buildings curtail the vision sometime. To catch a glimpse of the games that the clouds are immersed in, I sway from right to left. Buildings and water tanks on top of houses restrict my vision – I realise that people build houses on the earth and don’t really care about the grand landscape of the heavens that they disrupt in vulgar fashion. The semblance of a skyline does not exist for them as the earth is plundered.

That does not stop me in my meditative trance to catch the stroke of calligraphy that spreads across the translucent landscape where birds flying towards the setting sun. I see little boys on rooftops playing kites. It is for me a game of innocence. The kites reach the clouds and you can hear the giggle of pure joy. The long tail of the kites is like satin ripples that create rings of exuberance.

The kite flies higher and higher. I hear screams of excitement of children. May be it is the laughter of wonder - of how small we are to the clouds, of the space between the kite and the big roll of twine that is let loose. The wind has taken the kite with it further and further away into the clouds. The little boy knows that the thread of freedom is secure. The kite is still with him, just as the clouds are with him.

Gazing at the sky is tranquilizing - a drift into the world of wonder. The white clouds now turn to a little tinge of orange, as the kiss of ruche on the cheek of belle dancers.

Suddenly flamingos pass through, spreading their wings of twilight. A thousand at once.

The clouds change colour. The delicate orange becomes deeper. Suddenly it looks like dark curtains are going to come down on what was a magnificent performance of mysticism.

The child has rolled back the long rolls of thread. He brings his kite down. He places it under his arms as if the kite needs to be protected by the wind. He goes home and places it under the bed, waiting for the sun to rise again. Perhaps dreaming of coming home early from school tomorrow, to set the kite free to kiss the clouds.

The clouds float. They float into my life. I into them. Lost am I for a moment. Tranquillity curtains down silently.

I wait for darkness to settle in. I know the clouds have added colour to my life – like flamingos’ in the arid savannas, like ballerinas in the grand centre stage of the blue sky, where music and dance synchronize to leave you breathless.

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