July 5, 2017 Longshot Island
She wandered away from the house. No one noticed because they were inside getting dressed or out in the back yard enjoying a respite from the heat under the colorful shade of the canopy. Buttermilk and sherbat flowed freely. The guests were almost drunk on them.
She walked on dazed feet that trod the scorching earth with the stoicism of a yogi. She was that – a yogi – for this one day; detached from the world and its surroundings, oblivious to its pleasures and pain. She walked on, further and further away, driven by some inner knowledge, an inner yearning…
Until she reached the mango tree.
There was nothing else around in that expanse of eternal space, and to her such barrenness was a miracle. Just as it is a miracle to find a mango tree in a desert.
She stood there staring up at it, the sun blinding her. Before her unblinking eyes the green leaves of the tree turned to dazzling gold with spots of black in them. The spots grew larger and merged into a sea of darkness, obliterating every color, every drop of light. Slowly, soundlessly, she fell to the earth.
Writer of Stories, Spinner of Yarns. 