After the rains, the vast expanse of mud in front of my fifth floor balcony was all that was left of a beautiful meadow that was there till a day ago. I used to love standing there, with a late Sunday morning cigarette and a cup of tea, watching people do the stupid shit they decide to do on holidays.
Fat people jogging, kids getting into trouble, two neighbouring dogs talking while the owners ignored each other. Security guards being trouble. As it is their right to do, apparently. All kids of unnecessary, righteous bullshit, that is supposed to be good for you.
And, as a backdrop to this madness, I had a wide, long green meadow, fringed in the distance, by mist covered trees. On rainy days, it was like waking up after a good night. An odd peacock would pierce the silence with its most irritating call. But that was OK.
Somewhere in the middle of the meadow, there was a hut, next to a little white temple with a red flag. The first time I saw it, I couldn’t believe it. It was like living in a cliché. As time went by, I started appreciating the whole set up a little more. I enjoyed watching a family live their life of hard work, creating life over and over again in their little patch of the meadow. Sunflowers, some dark, long leaved green thing, some cabbages.
At night, in the distance, you could see the lights and hear the sounds of Mandi village. The sounds were never too good – usually some 80s Bollywood Retro, on one of the many irritating radio channels where I lived.
It was like being God in Age of Empire.
Fittingly, there was a wall lined with barbed wire, between us in our high towers, and the serfs in their dirty little villages. We walked our dogs, they chased their hens.
It used to be a nice thing, a rainy day.
And then, we have today.
The world used to be a beautiful place. Pity it wont last.