All about Ash

The little boy plunged stormily into the waters. He swam and he swam, deeper and deeper, until he reached the calm of the ocean floor. The waters were deep. They were inky violet in colour. And they lulled him into a semblance of peace. With bubbles of air escaping from the corners of his mouth, he then sped upwards once again, moving through shade after shade of blue, until he approached the surface. Where he glimpsed golden shafts of sunlight break through the rolling waters, creating a melody of translucencies in blue. He burst out of the water like a dolphin, his chest heaving, gasping for air. Pedalling the water, he spotted lime green fields in the distance. And he swam towards them with all the energy he had left

He let himself be gently washed onto the sandy shore. And with bare feet, he crossed the few yards of sand that lay between the water and the rolling fields of lime. His sandy feet trod upon the gentle green. He looked around and spotted an emerald forest in the hilly distance that the sun shone on. He walked towards the forest. And with determination, he climbed upwards towards the sun

The forest across the river was ancient, with huge trees mushrooming into profuse canopies of green, that nestled into one another. Sturdy trunks grew tall and strong, thick vines hung from the branches, and gnarled roots twisted outwards in search of moist earth to bury themselves again within. Butterflies floated about lazily, and birds chirped like children. Golden shafts of sunlight filtered through the overhead marriages of leaves, and dappled the mossy green ground with their warmth. Fruits hung in their lushness from the trees, the branches bending down that the earth might smell their seed. And an abundance of flowers, in a profusion of colours, ran rampant through this symphony in green

The little boy walked quietly through the forest, stepping over fallen branches and protruding roots, and moving aside cascading ropes of vines, all the while inhaling the heady fragrances of love’s many shades. He stumbled upon a tree from which ripe rooms hung in dense clusters like grapes. Cupping one sturdy cluster in his hands, he peeled away the thin borders between the rich fruit. Using his vulnerable hands, he kneaded the abundant pulp within into open, honest halls that graciously gave way to each other, and generous windows that let in shafts of sunlight through the day. And the branches of the tree, that grew into the balconies of this creation, he left untouched

He then painted the walls within in various shades of light, and bound the rooms together with the cord of his love, into a space he then called home. And thus did the little boy lay his love for his partner bare on his walls. The civilizations of the world that had existed since time began yielded him their colors. Brass. Silver. Bronze. Gold. Chocolate. Biscuit. Toffee. Caramel. Ivory. Marble. Pearl. Oyster. Amethyst. Ruby. Sapphire. Coral. Purple. Mauve. Lavender. Lilac. And Blue

The little boy traversed the centuries and plundered the ancient and modern empires of the world for their treasures. There was glass and light from the lands to the West, there was wood and fired earth from the lands to the East. He brought in delights from faraway lands, and brass and linen from the treasuries of his parents. Rooting within the many halls of his memories, he brought back fragments of the lands he had visited. And he then searched high and low till he found baubles to sprinkle within their home, baubles that humoured the space they occupied

What he could not find to put form to his vision, he fashioned himself out of the natural materials that were plentiful in his domain. It would seem that love had unleashed the potent raw energy that had lain dormant within him all this while

‘I think we might have something here’, grinned Light

Finally, laughing and giggling, the little boy and his partner carried their red velvet sofa together up the winding stairs that led to their home. Bursting in together through the front door they then wove all their treasures into a tapestry they together called home. It was their form of worship; it was their form of play. Besides, a home was what each had always ached to have. And so there they lived together in harmony

Life was a sweet pill that they flipped into their eager mouths without a thought. And it was then that the music of the night truly began to play. 

Wave after wave of the waters within them, linked inexorably to the waters of the seven seas, and from there to the Eternal Waters, rose from within them. Rising, rising, rising insurmountably until a crescendo was reached. Bass, soprano, alto, contrapunto. Soprano, alto, bass, contrapunto. Soaring, rising, booming, falling. Soaring, booming, falling, rising. Soaring, soaring. Higher, higher. Then the waves would lull themselves into sleep again. For just a moment. And then the music would surge forth again. Soaring and dipping, a lull and then a surge. Soaring and dipping, a lull and then yet another surge. The waters would play on with the music. And the music would play on with the waters. 

Melody, balance, theory, order. Lilt, cadence, meter, pulse. Rhythm, harmony, tune, structure. Rising, soaring, and then a lull. Surges, surges and more surges. Melody, harmony, theory, rhythm. A brief lull, and another surge. A surge. A brief lull. Continuation, articulation, repetition, expression. Another surge of the waters. A lull. A wave crashed onto the ocean floor. Another lull. Another wave crashed onto the ocean floor. Pitch, tone, timbre. The music lapped at their feet. Expression. Surge. Silence. Lull. Silence. Joy.

The music of the waters entered their ears, and joined together with the rivers of love within their hearts. And the two little boys looked on in awe and wonderment

Every morning, his life in his Fortress of Dark would be shattered by the crow of the rooster. He would awaken and wonder how he was going to fill his madhouse until sweet sleep carried him back into a semblance of normalcy again. There was always coffee, he would think. He would lie in bed and wait until the Caliph’s retainer would come in with his morning coffee. Drink a few cups of coffee, move one or two steps closer to nightfall. And after that, he could count on his morning ablutions. That would take him a few more steps towards nightfall. Easy. But even as he would think that, the day ahead would approach him and, taking him unawares, slowly snuff out the few moments of hope that his sleep had gifted him to greet the new day with. Why bathe? he would then wonder

Stumbling out of bed, he would throw open the doors of his wardrobe and stare at the court robes he had now had made to order. There was jet black, pitch black, coal black, ebony and ink black, all screaming and vying with each other for attention. Which one would he wear? he would wonder, as he slid them back and forth, back and forth, faster and faster, faster and faster, on the rod they hung upon. He would feel agitation threaten to disrupt his being. And he would hurriedly take a set of robes out of his wardrobe

He would pick at his his way through the day at the Ministerium of the Caliph’s, and gaze at life from within his corpse, with abject disinterest and a rictus of cheer plastered on his face

Can’t you see something is wrong with me? his eyes would scream

The people around him would hear his screaming, and jerkily dance the pantomime that was their lives to its beat. Helpless, he would slump back into his chair

Lunch. A platter of sweetmeats from home. Easy to eat, he would think. Easy. Their cloying sweetness would soon overpower him and snuff out his taste buds. Better that, than to taste. Open the mouth, stuff them in and swallow. What am I meant to learn? he would wonder afresh. And his mind would begin to eat his mind afresh

Munch, munch, munch

Munch, munch, munch

Don’t taste, he would fiercely think, scrunching his eyebrows in his effort, as he shovelled the sweetmeats into his mouth. Then, before he knew it, he would be back at his desk. Where he could practice Light’s scrawl on multiple sheets of paper again, which he would then push around his table, in an attempt to look busy

He would dimly remember the times Light and he had spent together. Faint notes of music would tinkle in his ears. And the agitation would threaten to hurtle out of him. He would clasp his hands to his mouth and swallow hard. And the agitation would then slowly recede

Every evening on his way home he would look blankly at the crossroads where Light had waited for him, before they would ride off into the sunset together. It hinted of happier times, and he would dully wonder how it must have felt then

HIs head felt wooly, he would think. His mouth felt stale, his tongue thick and coated with fuzz. Had he brushed his teeth? he would wonder

He would suddenly notice the crowds of people headed home. It would then suddenly flood into him: he was not going back home, he was going back to his Fortress of Dark. He would feel the agitation begin to churn within him once more. Alarmed, he would close his eyes, gripping the sides of the chariot until his fingers would tremble from the strain. Keep the eyes shut and mouth pursed tight, he would think fiercely to himself. Think black. Think black. He would close his eyes tightly. And he would then violently jerk himself back to easier thoughts. He was in his chariot and it was being driven by the Caliph’s charioteer. Easy

He must have a coffee or two once he returned to his Fortress of Dark, he would slowly being to muse, eyes yet tightly shut. Then perhaps he would sit in his chair instead of going straight to bed. That always depressed him. He would think of the wide single bed that awaited him in his chambers at the Fortress. He would think of the marble floors that would be gleaming dully, turning gloomier and gloomier as the sun set further and further in the horizon. And he would feel the churning begin in his stomach once again

Think of the bed, he would swiftly and silently tell himself. The bed would be made. White, white linen. White. White. Light. And he would begin to shudder uncontrollably

Think of black, he would tell himself swiftly. Think of black. He would open his eyes a chink to see if he had reached the Fortress. He had not. Panicking, he would close his eyes tight again. The curtain of black would draw across his eyes again. And he would bring himself back to cold hard facts. Marble floors. Cold, hard, marble floors. THis chambers would be spick and span without a trace of dust, glowing in anticipation of his return. His mother would have seen to that

He really must hurry home, he would decide. The crowds were really unbearable at this hour of the day. He must have the curtains drawn as soon as returned home, he would think. He couldn’t bear the sight of light anymore, as it disappeared from his view every night

He remembered a paperweight he had once seen as a child. Or had it belonged to him? He would shake it violently and the snowflakes within would agitate in all directions. While the snowman in the middle stood grinning broadly. Stupid snowman. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid

He would open his eyes again only when he could sense the chariot being driven into the Fortress. In his chambers, the Caliph’s attendant would be waiting to remove his robes. They weren’t taking any chances with him escaping, he would think. One retainer at the door to his chambers. Four more stationed by the stairs of his mother’s porch that his chambers led onto. Six more patrolling the front entrance of the palace. And of course, the imbecile who would visit him for a while every evening. Grinning broadly, the thug would twiddle his fleshy thumbs as he sat in silence before the little boy for an eternity, until he left

There he was in his chambers. Another day done. One or more cups of coffee to greet sleep sooner. Things were looking up already, the boy would think. It would be dark soon. And sleep would soon arrive. It was so very boring sitting still in his chair, looking around at his richly appointed room. Nothing moved, not even a vase, he would think. And he would giggle

Ah, soon he would be getting ready for bed. Porridge for dinner. Easier. Just drink a glassful. No need to munch. Swallow it. Simple. Then lie in bed. And wait for the dark. Easy. He’d done this for a million and one days already. What was one more day, after all?

In the Fortress of Dark, there is no passage of time.

And Lo! 

One fine day, when the sky was blue and dotted with puffy white clouds, when squirrels frolicked and when larks sang, he met another little boy. Who was on the same search that he was on. It was a meeting determined by chance; it was a meeting ordained by chance. Creation had finally spoken

Cymbals clashed, trombones played and triangles tinkled. The clouds sang in delight, and the heavens cried in joy. While the choir of stars hummed. For the river had finally reached the ocean, and the mountain had at last touched the sky. And all of Creation’s children watched in wonder, waiting as they had done for eons for this moment

The little boy fell in love. With another little boy, a wandering child of curly hair and cultured descent. He looked into his eyes. And his love was dancing all over the place

‘What is your name?’ inquired the little boy, brought up as he was to be polite

‘Most call me Light; yet others call me what only their eyes can see,’ replied the wanderer. ‘It is for you to decide’  

The little boy grew intrigued

’Look for my name within,’ said Light. As he held up a mirror before the little boy. The little boy looked and looked and looked in vain, but all he could see was his own reflection. At first baffled, then intrigued, he soon became infatuated. And from there he dove rapidly and securely into love

‘Sing me a song,’ he asked of the wanderer. As he looked into his eyes afresh and wondered if they might well be twins. And Light in turn, besotted by the naked river of love he chanced to glimpse swirling furiously behind the little boy’s eyes, wondered ferociously if it were not time for him to hang up his coat

And so Light sang to the little boy in his language. And he danced for the little boy. Gathering motes of colour from here and there and everywhere, with his naked hands as the warp and weft, and his dance the loom, he wove a shimmering cloak of enchantment that twinkled with every move it made. And he gave it to the little boy to wear

The boy tried it on, and the river of love within him surged in joy. The barriers holding the waters gratefully tumbled down. And the little boy’s heart was suddenly filled to brimming with a language, his mother tongue that had been but waiting for release. It was a language that he had never spoken, but yet was so achingly familiar to him in all its tones and intonations. His tongue started moving of its own accord in unison with his heart. Words he had never known suddenly dawned on him, issued themselves from within him, and composed themselves of their own accord into a symphony. And he sang

Together Light and he would rock themselves gently back and forth on the long rosewood swing in the Queen’s porch. Where the little boy would sing to Light

He sang of water in all its manifestations. Of gurgling streams and deep oceans, of running brooks and placid lakes, and of rivers in spate and choppy seas. He sang of thundering waterfalls cascading out of rock. And he sang of soft water flowing in hand-dug irrigation canals. He sang of the passion that erupted when tentative rivers first encountered parched lands as they wound their way across sun-scorched plains in search of the ocean. He sang of water as it descended from the heavens, only to dance in glee as it landed on the earth. He sang of the never ending daily cycle of the seas rolling in to mystify the land. Only to later recede, revealing the treasures they had gifted the land. And he sang in lilting tones of the merry myriad shades of blue, and the million and one mystical hues of violet

The long rosewood swing in his mothers’ porch rocked gently to and fro, its chains creaking gently to the tune of the little boy’s songs. Until the two boys fell asleep on each others’ shoulders

Days passed by so

Light wondered if he had finally reached his destination

‘Shall I …,’ began Light, hesitantly

‘Yes …,’ smiled the little boy

Within opulent white walls, and encased in ruby-red velvet, they decided they had a thing in common. And this was meant to be

The little boy sought to find a new home for himself, and he smelled the beginnings of it in the backyard of an old glass building. An abode on the ground floor with a doorway separate from that of the rest of the building beckoned him. He smiled at the horseshoe placed above the door, and hoped fervently that it signified a new beginning. And it did

The Abode. It was a large hall, rudimentary at best. A bed of straw with a rough cotton sheet drawn over it for a semblance of comfort. Curtain rods that hung awry from the walls, and a corroded metal wardrobe for his clothes. But he, who had slept upon sheets of the finest white linen and the most exquisite lace, cared not an iota about this. He nevertheless gazed blankly at the blackness inside the wardrobe and wondered how he would put his few clothes inside

‘Perhaps I could line the rust-splotched shelves with paper’, he thought, suppressing an involuntary shudder

There was a larder, whose door creaked on its hinges as the boy peeked within. Alongside the merest whisper of an open plan kitchen. ‘Tolerable plumbing’, thought the boy, heaving a sigh of relief, as he quickly glanced over the washroom

But as the boy quickly scanned the dimensions of the spaces within this dwelling, he noted the high ceilings and the large windows that would let sunlight in through the day. He sensed potential within this physical space. And more importantly, he got a whiff of his possible future there. He flung his arms out, and spun around and around in delight…

…And so it was that one fine morning, shortly after the little boy had moved into his new abode, he discovered that a most incredible event had occurred. During the night, an impossibly white tigress had given birth to a litter of three impatient tiger cubs under his kitchen sink. And her incredulous green eyes looked up at him inquiringly, as he opened the door beneath the sink, in all his innocence.

‘Eek!’ exclaimed the little boy, throwing his hands up in the air. 

Out jumped the startled tigress through the kitchen window, pink snub nose, impossibly white tail and everything else between. Leaving her three cubs to fend for themselves momentarily….

…He started calling the tigress Cat. He was neither, he decided, going to give her a proper name, nor was he going to make any attempts at domesticating her. Otherwise, he reasoned to himself, the next thing would be to tie a silk bow, maybe with a small silver bell, around her neck. And expect her to come over to him when called

Perhaps even have her lie across my lap, and allow her ears to be scratched, he mused silently to himself, while the world flashes by on a screen. Conceptually all that my parents expected of me, that which however was not in my nature to be, he concluded to himself, nodding his head in agreement with his words…

…Cat was very pleased with this turn of events. She was very very pleased indeed. She would prowl around his peaceful little kingdom, that grew increasingly beautiful with every piece of furniture that came in. She would mark each piece of furniture with the edge of her pink snub nose, her impossibly white tail swishing in happiness. Whilst the little boy went about scattering his treasures within his glass walls. 

Rooting around in the warehouses of his past, the boy stumbled upon a collection of water droplets made of glass. He hung these from the ceiling by the main door. And thus did visitors to his domain walk into a shower of crystal rain. These water droplets in glass would catch the evening sun that streamed in through the window, and scatter the myriad magical colours of light throughout his home. 

Once finished, the little boy lit the lamp to his silver idol and, sitting upon his red velvet sofa, looked around his little domain. The setting sun shone through the orange silk curtains in the hall, and reflected themselves off the glass walls of fuchsia and chartreuse.

And his happy kingdom glowed thus every evening in an orange hue.

And so it was that there was once a City of Eternal Light. It had gleaming spires, curling domes, and shooting towers that seemed to scrape the skies. As well as short, squat buildings that hunkered down in and around these treasures. They were all made of thick, clear glass. There were bath-houses, granaries and city squares, there were opera houses, train stations and lighthouses. Traffic signals, parks and playgrounds, they were all there. One could see through them and around them. They were all made of, as well as capped with, fantabulous forms of glass, each and every one of them. Within each of these crowns of wondrous forms, there was a fire that never seemed to go out. And indeed it never did

The flames that danced within these glass crowns reflected themselves multifold in the glass walls of the buildings. They created rainbows of colour that seemed to start from every point within the city and end at every point within the city. It would seem the city itself was the veritable pot of gold that seemed to find itself, as popular lore would have it, at the end of every rainbow. And people would flock to this city. In droves

Every morning, the sun would rise on this city of the heart’s fire. The flames atop the buildings would writhe in joy at meeting their father. And the sunlight would then turn this Eternal City of Light into an inferno of love. Droplets of sunlight would be caught by the glass, reflected and refracted multiple times, before being spun off as motes of color in different directions. Some would burrow themselves into the earth and grow into flowers. Yet others would shoot into space and turn into the stars

The sunlight would be relayed from one building to the next, as the sun continued its journey across the sky. And once the sun had retired for the day, the flames atop these buildings would then dance in all their glory for their mother, night after night

And the world would be bathed in an ethereal hue

I used to design high end home linen—kitchen towels, tablecloths, bedsheets and pillow/duvet covers—for export to Europe in the late 1990’s. Enclosed here are a few of my designs for kitchen and table linen in the Cretonne weave and bedlinen in the Satin weave. Insistent upon high quality and market requirements, my home linen can be washed at 60 degrees celsius with neither colour bleeding nor shrinkage

I also attended the Textilkaufmannkurs (Textile Buyer Course) at the Textilfachschule (School for Specialisation in Textiles) where the course was taught in German. I learnt German in order to attend the school—my German is as fluent as my English—and came out on top of the class in 2006

In this course I learnt everything about purchasing from the beginning of purchase of cotton fibres or linen yarn through to cotton thread, fabric weaves and finished clothing or home linen. I also learnt how to have different weaves woven—numbering in their 100’s—and was instructed in the composition of looms for jacquard weaves

It was through his textile designs that I first entered the world of colour

…we are all so fragile…

Sitting together with his grandmother, the young boy would learn to paint innumerable small clay bowls by hand, in a riot of patterns and colours. Using a paste made of rice flour mixed with different colours, she would get down on her knees and, in a religious fervour, draw large, intricate and symmetrically balanced patterns on the floor. The little boy, in a similar trance, would watch her tireless effort to love her gods. And these patterns became indelibly etched in his memory

‘These are the many patterns of life,’ she would tell her grandson, as she got down on her knees and started sketching a pattern

‘Each beautiful in their own way. And each indecipherable when we are lost within them. Much like the individual grains of rice flour within the paste, secure in their position within the pattern, yet having no comprehension of the overall pattern’

He would listen with rapt fascination. And he would wonder what indecipherable meant

‘There is an order to each of these patterns,’ she would say, as she slowly got back onto her aching feet 

‘The order of the macrocosm within the chaos of the microcosm’

He would nod in agreement. And wonder whether she would then cook his favourite sweetmeats for him

She would slowly introduce the little boy to her kitchen, patiently teaching him recipes that had been preserved by her ancestors down the many generations. Boiled rice, and a thick lentil soup. And then vegetables, first lightly sauted, and then sprinkled liberally with grated coconut. These were the staples of her cuisine, which the little boy took to with great relish. Food was eaten off banana leaves, which would then be collected together with the leftovers and fed to the cows

‘It is all but a circle,’ she would say to the little boy. Who would listen with utmost sincerity

Buddius began to growl. From a shy baby tiger, he blossomed into a flower of love and claws

Every morning, once hunger beckoned, he would wander into the bedroom and, seating himself on their bed by the little boy’s partner, would gently swat his feet. Until Light awoke. Who would then in turn push the little boy out of bed, that Buddius could be fed

Buddius would never try waking the little boy up. Despite their deep, deep bond, he knew the little boy would bodily pick the baby tiger up and fling him out of the bedroom, claws and all. The little boy so loved his sleep

And so it was that every morning the little boy would wander bleary-eyed into the kitchen, and wash Buddius’s bowls. And then feed Buddius. Who was by now partial to either tuna, or a mixture of sardines, calamari and prawns. As a special treat, the little boy would sometimes feed him spring water yellow fin tuna

The boy would then light his lamp to his silver deity, as he has done for many a morning. And thereafter light the fires in preparation for the day’s meals. Rubbing his eyes, he would pick up the bellows to stoke the fires, and thereafter lay out the vegetables in neat rows upon the kitchen counter. Listening to the chants of the Goddess on the radio, singing lustily along with her and very often out of tune, he would set about preparing breakfast. And he would look out of the window as he did so

Meanwhile Buddius, humming along with the chants of the Goddess, would wander from window to window. Doing his daily morning census of the pigeons that fluttered and roosted on their window ledges, on the other side of the picture windows.

‘Have you seen them?’ Buddius would ask the little boy every day. In all his indignation

‘They know what is what, but they don’t know what is what. They just strut. What the $#@%?

And his tail would swish faster and faster, in a fit of pique

The little boy would shrug his shoulders in response and go back to stirring the finely ground wheat he had just brought to boil in water

‘Good morning,’ he would cheerily wave out as his partner stumbled bleary-eyed out of the bedroom. Who in turn would be inwardly groaning at the sight that lay before him just as he got out. A tiny tiger taking a census of pigeons, tearing around from window to window to make sure he didn’t miscount. Pigeons fluttering away from the windows each time Buddius slammed up against the window pane. The little boy vigorously cooking away at the kitchen counter from which a melange of smells was emanating. A scene of domestic chaos, of pots and pans clanging, of whistling pressure cookers, of vegetable cut and chopped, and leafy waste piled high. And all this while the Goddess chanted on the radio

‘Should I just dive back into bed and wait for all this chaos to subside?’ he would wonder

Meanwhile Buddius would spot him. And scampering over over to him, would give him a gentle nip on the calf

‘Love and affection in every direction,’ the little boy boy would say bursting out laughing. ‘You could almost compose a movement sequence to that’

And throwing his arms out, would move his forearms from side to side, clicking his thumb and forefinger together with every alternate swing

The little boy’s partner would then decide to throw his lot in with theirs; a kookier bunch he would be hard pressed to find. And he would stumble onwards to the living room

Suddenly a voice would ring out

‘You vill eat your food’

Light would turn around to look. And there would be Buddius, a rather mutinous Buddius, sitting in front of a bowl of sardines, calamari and prawns. With the little boy, holding his ladle, standing in front of the bowl

‘You vill eat your food’

‘No!’ Buddius would retort

Light would wonder if he should involve himself

‘Wassup?’ he would ask

‘I gave Buddius some spring water yellow fin tuna the other day as a special treat. Remember? We had gone out to the taverns to play. And you thought he should play too’

Light started to back away from what he saw as a pitfall in the offing

‘Now he wants it every day’

Light would glance first at a rather mutinous Buddius and then at loving although stern little boy. Who was secretly hiding a smile, and begin to wonder if he should perhaps reconsider his decision

‘You vill eat you food.’

‘No! No! No!’ Buddius would cry out, before beginning to bolt all over the place, from room to room. Over the furniture. Under the furniture

‘Look! the little boy would gasp, tears of laughter running down his cheeks. ‘Buddius has the gall to think that with his size he can scare us. With his Bolts of Revolt!’

And still laughing the little boy went back to his cooking, with Buddius still bolting all over the place. Trying to scare the inmates into giving him his spring water yellow fin tuna

‘Call me when you’re done cooking,’ shouted out Light to the little boy as he skedaddled back to the bedroom, determined at all costs to hold on to his sanity

And then it would rain

The little boy would silently run out onto his courtyard, and spin around and around in delight. While his earring would bob up and down in tune with the rain’s steady patter. Holding his palms upwards, he would watch the raindrops as they splattered onto him. He would rub his palms vigorously over his soaking face, and run his fingers through his soaked hair. Until their waters percolated his very being. Every now and then golden sunlight would peek out from behind the dark clouds, only to catch sight of these droplets falling on the little boy. These droplets of blue tinged with golden sunlight would then feel very, very happy as they coursed over his body and clung to his clothes

Splashing out onto the road, the drenched little boy would watch the procession of the colourful denizens of this city of glass, as they went about celebrating the arrival of the rains. To the steady sound of their drums and long, long wind pipes, in fascinatingly synchronised step and beat, they would dance with the water droplets, as their multihued clothes danced around their bodies

Ruby red amusing icy blue. Icy blue eyeing majestic violet. Lime green gazing upon the same majestic violet with utmost absorption. Icy blue turning green with jealously for an instant and then reverting back to icy blue. Turquoise and verdant green, both renewing each other. Coral red and brick-red chasing scarlet. Scarlet then turning around and chasing them in turn. Smudges of flamboyant orange teasing a smile out of sombre grey. Prussian blue and ultramarine shimmering in and out. Chartreuse and magenta smiling hand in hand. Dabs of soft peach romping with indigo and green. Vermillion getting into the groove. Shades of dignified brown walking in step. Droplets of lush emerald. Melodies in dancing blue. Tints of purple, mauve and lavender, all cheering the procession on. Ivory, powder blue and pink, giggling and darting around between their brethren

Streaks of primary yellow, pure red and pristine blue singing softly. Glimpses of dazzling white. Music. Magic