Blur of life

One of the things I enjoy about travelling is not so much the marvelous monuments and tourist sights we are travelling towards,  but what passes by the coach window on the way.  This is the real India, quietly going about its life while we sit and stare.  


Travelling past our window, a sea of blurred impressions:
Parched grass, tiny hedged fields, haystacks of drying rice,
Brick huts, tin roofs weighted with rocks or gathered wood, 
High-stilted shelters from the sun stand lookout across the fields, 
Towards orange-flowered hedges bordering the road. 

Brightly painted houses in the towns like a child's paintbox,
Blues, yellows, reds, greens, purples shouting for attention,
Corrugated tin awnings balanced on bamboo or metal poles,
Ads on side walls: JK Super Cement, Build Safe, Build Strong,
Building work everywhere, new extensions, new houses,
Piles of bricks neatly stacked in between for future projects,
Everything covered in the road's rich red dust.

Between villages the land flashes brown, yellow, green, black, 
Yellow mustard patchworking the brown of cleared rice fields
Green hedges around black striped stubble, burnt in the old way.
Horned white-humped cattle casually wander the streets,
Brown dogs sleeping, women cooking, children staring,
A blur of life rushing past our greedy eyes.

© Copyright 2025. Chris Auger. All Rights Reserved

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