Clouds spread like watercolour on a grey-blue canvas, emerging from behind trees to say their nebulous hellos. Or goodbyes? Only the skies know the answer. All is uncharacteristically still, but rain is in the air. The leaves feel it. The windows pulled shut scream it. The watercolour clouds are soft, floating past buildings with their gentle, wispy caress. The white and green building is touched by the darkness of dusk, and its colours blur to make one big expanse of grey and black. But even then, even now, as horns blare and the city rolls on, the grey is not dull. It’s quietly beautiful, more beautiful in the knowledge of its power. Clouds and sky melt into one and I can hardly tell which is which. Leaves stir, like their eyes have been coaxed open by the monsoon, the smell of damp earth rising into the sky like smoke, fresh from the last rain. I’m not quite sure what periwinkles look like but the word drifts into my mind, as if on its own, as I watch the skies change through the window.
When I was a child, I’d take my brush and mix all the paints left in my palette at the end of class, just to see what colour they became. It was a few quick seconds, but I loved the surprise of creating something new. Something unknown from the carefully separated splotches of colour. Back then, I hated when it all turned into one big mess of grey and blue. I favoured bright colours, the reds and pinks and oranges. But back then, I knew not of the sky, and the way it churns all our stories into one big mess of grey and blue as lights flicker on in the streets, as I ache to open the window but the mosquito bites erupting on my legs warn otherwise, as tiny golden spots peep through leaves and tease the darkness.