I wake up at six, walk out of the faint orange apartment complex, breathing in the fragrance of the grey mist, letting it empower me, not comminatory, but swirling and swirling like a breathtaking vortex of tranquility, while I walk, without an edge, but an ease to my gait, my grey sweatshirt and skullcap complementing both the day and the season. I walk outside the gate, and the tone of the climate, which once felt nostalgic or lonely, now caresses me with the sweet anxiousness of anticipation. I hail a cab, and as I sit in the backseat and drift past grey road after road, occasionally looking at the Flame of the forest dancing vivaciously to the rhythm of the weather, I think of a better allure, a deeper spell that she possesses. I let the window slide down half way, not only to let my senses dance to the cadence of the morning, the sun slowly skimming over the horizon like anticipation rising to excitement. I reach the Airport, and though a part of me wants to smoke, I settle for Grey Tea, embracing the slow chill that still resides. I watch as the sky turns fiery, and watch as a throng of people arrive, a grey mass, indistinguishable, and look for her. My eyes meet hers, an orange whirlpool of depth beneath all that complements the greyish-orange twilight. She walks up to me, throws herself into my arms, and at that moment we’re one with the morning, the season, and separate from it all: our scent, our peace, our caress, our end to excitement, our beginning to something more surreal than this season of exhilarating, intriguing, beguiling beauty. We spend the day walking each grey-tinged street, looking at the dancing wild foliage juxtaposing the chipped off buildings like a city of mirrors reflecting all our intricacies, nonchalance, excitement, abstractness. We settle for lunch in this beige café, somewhere in middle of this city, the color giving us a balance, and after, we visit a lounge bar, the waiter bringing us a flaming martini and placing it on the grey table, while we gaze at the flames: darting, skipping, speculating, knowing, seeing, and the music has this slightly offbeat, cool vibe to it, the rhythm distracting us and then bringing us back to each other. We light our cigarettes, the smoke quickly cascading upwards, the grey ash speckling the tray, the orange glow, spellbinding, mysterious, and enticing. We leave to the hotel, the orange light drifting over the pale grey water of the heated swimming pool, and open the mute orange door of our room, and shut it behind us, the velvety gray aura of what’s unsaid, enveloping, covering, teasing and taunting us, as I plant kisses on her neck, and she tilts her neck up, her eyes betraying both orange and grey, and excitement turns to something deeper, profound, not just titillating and tantalizing, but both totalizing and unraveling sense and color; tender and revitalizing, smooth and energizing, as each mote of passion melts skin and hue, and there is no win or blue, but a mutual infatuation beyond just adoration, and this is a song of whispers and sighs, or more fervent, and she rests her head on my shoulder, while the curtains turn grey, and then a misty orange, and we kiss, and I drop her off at the airport, still stuck in November, and dreaming and waiting for another season while she does the same.
© Nitin Lalit Murali (2019)