This is how it must be: that I wake up midmorning and instantly sense that outside the closed windows the sky is bent with purple clouds and the air a lazy grey. I open the windows and instead of the branches of the mango tree edged with clumps of little golden leaves which sway to the lazy wind and rises crooked from the gentle rise of the road two storeys below, there is the flat of a meadow, like an endless green lawn. I step out and see at the far beyond a rippling stream which in this green landscape, is like a blue line curving around the edges. Except that there is no edge.
The sky is purple with monsoon clouds and since it is morning, a white sun is there behind smudging the ends of the rainsky. Except that there are no ends.
I, alone in a vastness of pure earth, waiting for the sky to pour itself down in arrows and drink me into itself. Except that there is no sky or I.