I’m in Krishna Rao Park. It rained last night; there is no shard of sunray piercing through the white sky.
It is beautiful obviously.
I am listening to Trigger Warnings by Neil Gaiman, narrated by Neil Gaiman.
This is Magic.
Distant shouts and screams of children, old people discussing their tea, walking up a storm can’t muffle the birds or the petrichor in the air.
All these unscrupulously expensive perfumes, bottled air, and the best scent of them all, a freshly showered tree.
I describe this to you, to tell you, that reading or listening to a Neil Gaiman story is an experience.
In every sense.
I listen to Rasika Shekar’s Lalitha on repeat. The stories reach a crescendo just as her flute does, and the calm crooning ushers in a twist in the tale to come.
I have to write a literary fiction short story. The curse integral to the story has not yet come to me. But I can believe that the best part of the world-building is when a piece, elusive for so long, simply fits. The rightness of the continuity feels akin to an achievement of high order.
I believe it will come.
Watching a Neil Gaiman story unfold is like noticing hundreds of parrots on the lone coconut tree a little in front of my house porch at five in the morning, suddenly take flight. The sight is breathtaking, really. Magnificent flurries of colour, the flaps of their wing a testament to their ability to fly away into the throes of your imagination. You know this is the way of nature, you know this happens a million times a day everywhere, but when you acquaint yourself to it, for that brief moment, you are enchanted.
And later, you kinda forget.
Until the next time you read his words and stumble a little with the awe you feel.