Heaven Below...

 

Day

The low hanging mist over the tea bushed hills seemed like a  damp-breath on a window pane. The dissipating fog revealed a miniature mute-traffic far below. The meandering highway in great haste. The distant noise with each rise of the hills grew faint and occasionally loud car horns reached feebly. I gazed at my boots lying upon a stout bare root of the old banyan tree.
 

It always seemed like an unfinished portrait of a hill to me. This solitary old tree had always captured my attention from the earliest days I can remember. I have been left staring at this tree across fleeting seasons over a good decade of time. So on this parched day I walked uphill to settle the miles for once. The shade covered my back as I kept watching the panoramic view of the great plains with countless foothills ascending towards me. It felt lighter if not enlightened. I then began to locate my tiny home, the vestibule or the terrace from where I used to stare at this tree. It was difficult to spot my home from this distance amidst the cluster of our tiny village. I tapped the cigarette tighter waiting for the wind to halt and lit it cupping my hands.

Night

The sky was in speckle with tiny crystals over the slumbering village. Soiled and battered prayer flags of yesteryear fluttered hard on the rickety bamboo-pole, each time a gush of wind came to knock it off.  A dull spark of lightening rummaged across the distant horizon followed by dull rumbling of the clouds. I noticed the smoke slithering through my nostrils and spread away before thinning out completely in the cold. The sound of a rumbling truck panned across the adjacent highway below. The gas chocked the fresh cold air. 

Weather change in minutes and soon enough I noticed a thin mist floating like fireflies around my neighbor's burning tungsten. I was gazing at the tiny hut when I felt soft drizzle on my looking glass. The company of a tiny frog perched on a large green leaf now hopped and disappeared seeking refuge under a rock. I flicked my cigarette and rushed into the house. The tin roof muttered aloud and my thoughts joined the conversation.