On the way back to Delhi by train. Achingly beautiful brickwork bridges over dry riverbeds. Acres of fields, laden with crops but mostly, leftovers of the harvest in bundles. Some crooked willows, looking quite lost that seem to extend their bare branches upwards, as if in a tableau of silent supplication. And as the night advances, the train suddenly creaks to a jarring stop for a few seconds at an unknown station.
Distant farms in a haze
And as always when I am left to my own devices, the dull pain of knowing. The essential futility of all efforts and the impermanence of all things. The stupidity and destructiveness in human relations. Memories of a smile that cuts like a butcher's knife. Meanwhile, the lady in the window seat is finicky about her salt and the soup is tepid and tasteless anyway. Little boy constantly tugging at the blinds. Shut eye to the sounds of the rushing train.