दिल क्यों ये मेरा शोर करे, इधर नहीं, उधर नहीं, तेरी ओर चले| ( dil kyun yeh mera - kites )
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long stretches of daisy meadows. like pretty white freckles on the face of earth. like snow sprinkled on lawns in april. like the possibilities all things good and beautiful. a sheet beneath a picnic basket full of cherries and seashells and crumbs of honey cookies.
a wooden hut in the middle. a table. two cushions. a shelf divided in two. one compartment full of books. books of poetry he reads to her every evening holding her hands and smiling into her eyes. poetry which compares her with the radiance of the sun and tranquility of the moon. the other compartment full of flowers. flowers wrapped in papers. flowers in baskets. flowers in ceramic glasses and pots and buckets of all sizes and colors. flowers she would gently run her fingers on before collecting. rolls of pastel coloured satin strips to tie the flowers hanging around the corners.
climbers growing down the sidewalls. curtains flying inwards from the blow of winds revealing the clothes hanging off in the distance. his white shirt and khaki pants. her ivory dress dusted from the tire swing she was swinging on the previous day. his pictures beneath the steaming kettle on the table. the refreshing smell of coffee lingering and drifting around them.
she leans towards the window while fixing her hair up and sipping the coffee. the sun kisses her shoulders and she smiles at it. making him jealous. and then she looks at him with the same smile. and then her smile widens just a little. and then her smile bursts into a melodious laugh. and then she waves at him as he rides off for work.
by the noon he comes back around the fields. the sky is the perfect blend of pink and orange. she hums while collecting flowers and swinging her basket. the basket with a scarf around the handle matching with the bandana around her hair. she walks so lightly. she almost floats. like a feather drifting smoothly in the air.
after she's done picking the flowers, he puts his arms around her and they dance around the fields. after they're done dancing, he carefully plucks out all the daisies stuck in her dress and puts them in her hair after loosening her bandana.
then they go and sit by the water. they hold each other's hands. her fingers smelling of fresh wet soil and his of coffee and old papers. they drink from wineglasses filled with stars and lilies. she tells him stories of childhood and sunsets. he tells her stories of stars and love and beauty. and tells her that beauty is her. and that she's beautiful. and she laughs. and she looks away when she can't laugh anymore. then she looks at him again and pushes gently at his chest. he pretends to fall back. she pretends to fall on him. and then she lies on him. her face on his chest. and they keep lying. she taps her fingers on his chest trying to match the pace of his heart. she tell him that his heart is racing. he tell her that it's racing for her. and then they talk. about everything and nothing at once.
some evenings she joins him with her bicycle and they go riding together. they ride and ride like they have no worries in the world. somewhere along the way they hold hands and sync. after reaching home, he convinces her to go on a walk with him again because he can never get enough of the earth and the flowers. and the sun. and her.
at some point she removes her sandals, holds them in one hand and runs after tell him to catch her. he starts running after her. he comes close to her but instead of catching her, he starts running with her. and then they run together under the dim setting sun. they look into each other's eyes and fall. over and over again.
and just so, from hiding their faces behind the bouquets of flowers, to reading each other's eyes, they grow old and grey but still green and white and brown like the earth and the sun and flowers around them.
