9 am. The mist has cleared and the Red-whiskered Bulbuls are out with their sweet song, proudly wearing shiny black mohawks. Post-monsoon, the grass has shot up to nearly four feet high, its slender golden heads gently swaying in the cool light breeze. Pearlescent dew is clinging to the edges of the blades of grass. A frisky young jack-fruit tree is now competing with the elderly rosewood that’s been there for a decade. Coffee is brewing. An occasional motor-bike rumbles past. The chikoo (Sapodilla) tree is heavy with fruit. The palm frond is browning and half of it has peeled off the smooth striped trunk. A hint of jasmine in the air every now and then.
I sit here, breathing, looking at the hilly horizon and everything else, just as it is. Not one thing is wrong. Nothing out of place. The blinking of the eyes. Laughter, when it comes. Tears, when they come. Thoughts as they come and go. The Ficus extending skyward, regardless. The copper-leaf shrub being copper. The grass being its verdant green self. The breeze being its gentle self. This moment being open and present to me exactly as it is.
Not a thing missing. Nothing extra. Not a thing needing fixed or changed or made better.
All perfectly natural. Simple. This is. I am. We are.
