The image that comes to mind when I think of not thinking

21 Nov

I’m standing inside a small courtyard, surrounded by 4~5 story buildings with a bit of age on them. The courtyard is sparse and whitewashed, with a narrow tall dark metal door leading to the Outside World. The buildings painted white and blue with paint chipped some wheres. A few potted plants in plain torquise or earthen bowls dot the courtyard, gathered in little clusters to the side. You can imagine skinny brown half-dressed children running through here; this space retains an echo of excited squeals. But for now it is noon, close to the monsoon, and the air is ripe with the beads of anticipating moisture. And my body has lived here all my life so it feels cool to me, my skin dry against the thin muslim that covers me. The air is silent and streamed with sunlight full of dancing golden dust. I feel quiet inside, present and loose, as though a strong gale could topple me but I could not mind. I am slightly curious but un-opinionated, like a faun stepping gingerly through the thickets I sense my environs with relaxed caution.

And there is no one leaning over the balustrades shouting greetings, dispensing admonitions. All the neighbors are sleeping or away at a party. And my situation is poor, but not desperate, with neither prospect nor desire. And I smile mildly at the knowing that there will always be chai, in red clay cups the size of your palm, with which, perhaps later, another palm will join.

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