At Naagar...

It is that time of the year again!
I'm visiting my Uncle's place, a small village-town named Naagar. Along with Duggad, Morsa, Ugar and Daugar, this place forms what is called the Orange Belt, at the foothills of the Himalayas.
This is not because of oranges growing all around or anything, rather, the beautiful Gandelione flowers that adorn these areas in spring, in unimaginable volumes; to the extent that the sight from low flying planes looks like a continuous stretch of orange.

There is something about that flower, that makes for an amazing artistic experience. It could be the slender, sensual curves that define its petals, or the little yellow dots that lie cuddled up inside. Whatever it is, every single detail about it feels like a poem in motion, whenever I manage to get back to this forgotten little place.

Have to pack and run now.
This will continue upon my reaching Naagar!

--

Hmmkay...
Its been 6 hours since I've reached here. And I cannot get myself to sit down in one place. For some reason, the way from the station to home, usually overflowing with orange at this time of year, seemed hardly alive. There seems to be a pall of gloom, doom and development spreading over my till now untouched paradise. Not that I'm against urbanization and growth or anything, but erecting random buildings where a little bird used to spread innocent pollen, is not quite sitting right at the moment.

I'm feeling immensely cheated, yet in a tremendously round-about way, guilty about all this. I'm not sure where I fit in the entire ecosystem here, but the feeling holds.
It is as if I, as an educated, "privileged" citizen, have led to this. As if the burden of being among the most 'academically endowed' in the country wasn't heavy enough, there comes along this new self directed conspiracy theory.

Now I'm sure I'm not the murderer here.
But I think in some way, I did unwittingly supply him the knife. How, when and where this subtle transaction happened, I am yet to figure. All I'm sure of is, I'm part of a system, that might one day end the world. But then again, aren't all of us?

Pah!
Thats too much thought for my unsuspecting mind for now. I think I'll end this one here, with no orange there's little magic left to write on. Hope the home-made khikris that await me in the kitchen, along with the 1968 German movie I brought with myself, shall serve to bring me back to where I generally am.

Lets see.

--kandisa