Lotus flowers are in bloom in the far away pond, perhaps about forty kilometers from my home. I can see the pink and the green, the muddy water and the lazy leaves floating about. Who would have known that these thick grainy smooth large flowers are rooted in utter muddiness below, held by sloppy mud, murky waters, and darkness. I sit in my garden amidst the rajnigandha, the hibiscus, and the bird of paradise. The tamarind rises from its hood looking down at me. The low armchair upon which I have settled pulls me lower. The open book on my lap has its pages dancing back and forth. A light yet gusty wind blows through my hair.
