The plant

Hanging from the balcony railings, right outside my window, there was a flower pot. Earthen brown, earthen pot, with green moss growing on its sides. It held a small plant, with just a few leaves, just a few twigs, fed by the dripping water from the roof and whatever nutrition the black soil had. An iron extension remained of the unfinished balcony, which almost looked like a fork. Beyond these obstructions was the blue mountains and cottony clouds, that would change their color for a spectacular evening show as the sun set behind those mountains. At other times, as I set at my desk, reading some old classics, I would peer down to see the Balason river flowing down the mountain and the green valley beside her.

The plant was growing great, but soon the autumn arrived and it started wilting. I did a sketch (pen and pencil color) of it in the late monsoon and later did a painting when it started to wilt. I looked at the tree everyday but never noticed this until I looked at my own drawings much later. It has been many many years I left the small hill town, but the impression is still strong.



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