In less than 40 hours, I have a test to write on the Romantics, who though a favourite group of poets can not sustain much critical and analytical studying and I have a huge inclination to write a post on rain(yes again!), a temptation that I must give into, the Romantics, the test and the late hour not withstanding.
It had rained heavily last afternoon and satiated with my fill of staring out of the window at the ripples making and breaking, overlapping and dissolving anti-climactically, in the green pond and little muddy puddles, I ventured outdoors. The black pitch lane, blacker than usual, wet and sleek, lay before me and as I walked on this winding para path, the tedious and the quotidian came forth in newer shades-subdued and soft, melancholy but not morose. It seemed as if the same yellow house that glazed in the sun, and the tired green leaves that wearily languished over a high boundary-wall, and the dead looking moss on the wall been touched with a wet paint-brush, which despite the agency of softer hues, had infused life in them. I have often wondered if anything can contest the beauty of a cloudy sky silhouetted against which stand canopies of high- reaching trees. I declare, nothing can. The grey sky, with its cloud cover kept reminding me of Pelling and the walks under a very low sky on the winding, sinuous roads that I undertook more than a year ago. yesterday I kept returning to those walks through clouds,swathed in layers of warm clothing, when the only assailable body parts of mine that the clouds could touch mischievously were my uncovered nose and mouth, through which I had swallowed a little cloud, in a bid to sing at the beauty surrounding me. If I could only return to Pelling once again.
Sometimes I should paint Sikkim on this blog, before it gets written off my mind, however unlikely that may be.