Beautiful Brown
August was on the brink of September. The autumn zephyr sang, turning the frosty green leaves into golden brown. Busy walking feet scratched the ground crushing the lifeless fallen leaves into chunks of orange dust which danced in choreographed circles in the whirling wind. Late as I had always been to catch my school bus, I neither had the patience nor the mood to stand and stare at the ravishing weather. I ran along the streets carrying my thirteen pound school bag, praying to God that these naughty leaves shouldn't dare think to make my slippery feet trip. Both my arms were outstretched pushing behind everybody and everything that blocked my way.
'Oi, watch where you're going!' shouted an old woman whom I ran into.
'Sorry!' I cried, never looking back, for I cannot endure the anguish of missing the bus again and walking back home to find my father guffawing at my predicament. I have heard and known fathers who encourage and take pride in their children's achievements. But mine was just the obverse. Nothing makes him more content than laughing at my misfortunes. And should he find me calm and composed, his ultimate goal shall be to land me in misery. Such a lovely father. I adore him.
The bus stop was just a couple hundred yards away and yet how it transcends to miles everytime I start off late, I do not know. From a distance I could see two little green shirts with pinstripes floating in the air like magic which meant that my bus was yet to come. The only good thing about such a bad uniform colour was that it was easily conspicuous. Oh how grateful I am, I thought and smiled, and as anticipated beforehand, one of my feet slid to one side and I fell on my back scratching my limbs and tearing the knees of my pants. For the very first time in my life, my cumbersome schoolbag did me a favour. It saved my head. With my hands stuck to the tarmac like a monitor lizard, I cursed the dried leaves, autumn, nature, mother earth and all sorts of things that my head could think of, only to realise that the real culprit was my wonderful shoelaces.
I tried to sit up and rise quickly before someone might find me and make the scene more embarrassing, but as I forced myself to get back on my feet, my eyes sensed something strange in the skies and a mystifying melody shooted through my ears. A bizarre act was being staged up in the wide blue yonder and I couldn’t take my eyes off. Twelve birds which I fathom were either hawks or kites with their feathery plume a shade of brown, black and dun were circling about in the sky like spinning coriander leaves in a seething cauldron. There is a giant light pole by the next corner of the road junction where my bus stop rests and a metre opposite to it stands a cellular tower. A few birds were perched on the light pole while a few others were settled on the tower and the rest of the flock was rolicking in the cloudless ether. So deftly and smoothly their wings cut through the air like a polished knife slicing through butter. One particular bird, with larger wings and a wider breast than the others never broke its flight to alight on either of the resting places but kept flying incessantly. Wide-eyed and open-mouthed, I kept standing there, trying to decipher this baffling sorcery that was transpiring before me. Soon, the puzzle became clearer and yet I couldn’t believe the picture that it created.
The prodigious bird was trying to touch the other birds that were flying and once caught in its touch, they alighted on the cellular tower. The exhausted ones lulled on the light pole whilst the ones in the flight tried to release the birds on the tower and set them aloft. In other words, they were playing tag! How unbelievably remarkable, thought I, hands in my pockets, head elevated.
‘Lost your way, young lady?’ asked an old man with a greasy beard and tousled hair. His eyes were as black as the darkest night sky and though old he was, his features were strikingly handsome.
‘Oh no, sir,’ said I ‘but do you, by any chance, know of a way that could take me up there?’ I smiled, pointing a finger towards the birds and turned my gaze back, for I cannot bear the sorrow of missing one second of this extraordinary spectacle that was conjuring overhead. The old man rolled his eyes and smacked his forehead, heading athwart the streets and disappearing into the proletariat throng.
‘How come nobody has taken any interest in this?’ I asked my heart which replied back in silence. A sudden honk came from a distance which my eardrums found vaguely familiar. A dark figure, short and stout dressed in a khaki shirt and pants rolled up at his knees stood at a distance, staring at me.
‘Crap!’ said I and scuttled quickly towards the conductor.
‘Daydreaming, are we?’ he asked as I entered the bus. I did not reply and hastened to my seat trying to suppress the smile that was plastered hard on my face. I tried to look up at the sky through my window. A few birds caught my eye and I checked my watch. It had been seven minutes straight and the bigger bird was still afloat in the air, its manoeuvres adroit and dextrous. Our house is painted brown and I never quite liked that colour. But now, everything seemed to be in hues of sepia—brown birds, dried leaves, rusted cycles and tanned Indians.
‘Beautiful brown,’ I whispered, as my school bus moved forth, but the sight of watching the brilliancy of the winged creatures lingered in my mind.
In the evening, as I took my seat in the bus again, one of my friends walked past me to join his busmates.
‘Still smiling?’ he asked with a chuckle. I had known him for ages, but that was the first time that I noticed that his eyes had a shade of umber brown.
‘Still smiling.’ I said and leaned my head on the window, closing my eyelids, reminiscing the magical memory.