The evening sun, glowing like an edible disc of flaring yellow low in the horizon, shimmers in the green water. A bridge of white on which I stand, and another winking up from the lake. Waves lap up the rickety white wooden pillars slant into submission, supporting the bridge, uncomplaining in their misery.
The bridge creaks under my footsteps, like olden generations groaning under the apathy of the present.
A solitary drop falls on my shoulders, quickly dissolving itself into the fabric, leaving but a grey souvenir of remembrance behind.
Rainclouds loom from the east, advancing like godmen dancing to chase the sun down. And meekly, silently the sun retreats down its melancholic western journey. And the battlefield abdicated, the evening takes a turn for the funereal.
As menacing grey vanquishes melancholy yellow, a chill sets in, like so many Dementors round the corner. Pine trees bow their heads down pensively like angels suddenly reminded of past misdeeds. The cold wind withers their barks and a fall of leaves fleetingly flatters to occur.
And then the Tandava begins. The hail first hits the road, marking out the curbs and sloping down the verge. Then the calm of the waters is broken by rude pellets of icy water and hail.
Standing on the opposite bank, I see the megalophobia-inducing wall advance towards me like Shiva himself dancing his way across his worlds in a mesh of creation and destruction.
And with a blast of numbing authority, He dances past me to the rhythm of the clouds, to the rain making love with the lake, to the trees weeping in shameful nostalgia, and to the grim chill in the air.
carvaan 