Picture a circle, will you? The one that a 6 year old draws with all the disaster it can muster. A half eaten moon here, two disjointed points there, the map of a small South Asian country everywhere. The lake was this circle. Leafless bunches of trees sticking out from earth overlooked the lake, watched over it and its silences.
The mountains looked like faraway relatives that appear to be distant but are always around you, in your life, threatening to enter any minute now. The silhouette that these mountains managed to pass off as scenery by twilight sought redemption in the next day’s merciless blighting of the sun and the things sun does with huge landscapes.
The lake absorbed the heat, light and the yellow of everything ugly and warm and reflected it with twice the aggression by noon. A white hawk sits by the lakeside and looks. Now and then, its friends join it and they all sit quietly and breathe the landscape.
It is hardly windy here but when it is, the lake moves like a river chasing its ocean.
When night falls, the silence becomes deafening, the black in everything merging with the quite in everything. Now and then passing frogs croak and call out to the lake. Now and then, the buzz and hiss of various insects cut through the silence like the snake cuts through wet grass.
The first stroke of dawn falls on the dew of the only remaining leaf on an otherwise cheerful tree. Any minute now the leaf will fall and meet its only family on the ground, brown and withering.