Dusk in Kibber (Orange Spitian Village Glow)

The houses turn pink in the setting sun. Clouds reach high, a deep fog of endless fluff. Higher clouds turn red, shaped like Japan in orderly rows. All becoming deeper, fuller, until light fades to an arctic blue. Bright prayer flags flutter over each thatched roof. Over the hill comes the cattle. Yaks, donkeys, sheep and goats. Some being ridden, whipped and startled by small children. Many cavort on, some hop, but most trudge their way homewards. All knowing the way to their pens under the houses. It smells of animal hide and dung. Old ladies, bend low to the ground, carrying the days harvest. Natures rewards. Be it sticks, herbs or aromatic flowers. Men sit and play dice or cards, passing the time, laughing heartily. Women are wrapped in bright shawls, some men wear cowboy hats, other men from Bihar carry cement bags on their heads. Large patterned carpets dry on orange rocks, as women scrub clothes in the rocky rapids. Movement everywhere, life, old community in motion. An elderly lady spins a large colourful prayer wheel in a small dark room. Chanting timeless words with timeless meaning. A blue tractor clatters by carrying a cargo of rocks to re-build a road. Children play in the muddy streets, swinging on powerlines wrapped in steel wire, spinning prayer wheels made of rusty Nestle powdered milk tins, others run down hills using sticks to roll steel wheels. Like Victorian street kids. Snotty nosed and scruffy. I see all this sitting at my window, feet in a blue bucket of icey water. Covered in dust, a happy observer. All this is happening under the majestic gaze of a granite mountain, its snow capped dome dominating the light blue skyline. Seeing this in Spiti is seeing a form of paradise on earth. A utopia. Today will be repeated, this orange sunset the perfect end.


1 Response so far »

  1. 1

    Mama Wolf said,

    That really is a lovely peice of writing, dear….xxxx

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