The First Omen

Simple things always gets my interest, more than the sophistications and riches that generally lures people of my age. I choose to spend my weekends reading a book rather than crowd the shopping malls. However, my love for plainness never influenced my fancy for the elegance and the magnificence of the nature. Nature always calls upon me. I relish long, lonely evening walks, because that is when I get to see things as they are, rather than take everything that cinemas shows us nowadays. I love when my hair flutters along with the cool breeze and birds sing somewhere faraway.

Though, every evening walk had been no different from the other, except for the people who walk the streets, there was something magical about that evening. I could feel the magic and also smell it. Thankfully, I live in suburbs; otherwise, I would have been smelling smoke that vehicles fart.

I was alone in the street, standing, taking in every detail around me. I could sense eyes upon me. The trees, the cool breeze and the gossiping birds, everybody were following my every move. I let my eyes stray from one side of the road to another, in search of the magic. I even looked on the branches of the trees, which were being mere mute spectators that evening.

At last, the magic caught my attention. I couldn’t take off my eyes from it, though staring at it was hurting them. I stood there, alone, caught in the spell of the most beautiful thing that I had ever seen in my life. The sinking sun had emblazoned the sky so elegantly that I wished to spend my entire life admiring its beauty. Surely, no artist would ever boast about his work, if he ever witness such a wonder. The colors were so beautifully chosen and the patterns so delicate, so glorious.

I stood there, legs rooted to the spot, eyes fixed upon the sinking sun and mouth half open, until the sky went gray and the sun went down the west.

Later, I rushed home, eager to pen down the phrases that were flaring in my mind. I wanted to capture the essence of the phenomena before it faded away. I was sure none of the phrases would manage to convey what I had seen, anyhow I wanted to write. I had seen the sky, many evenings, but none had been magical.

I found a parchment in the closet and also a pen. I sat on the table to sketch the beauty, with words. The magic was still afresh in my mind. I opened the cap of the pen and placed it aside. The phrase that I wanted to start with was, “No artist's work”. As the nib of my pen touched the paper, I realized the pen was dry. I hurried back to the closet, to refill the pen with ink. I took the ink-pot from the shelf and undid it's lid, then dipped the pen in the ink. At the same time, the lights went off and sudden darkness engulfed the room. In fear, I dropped the bottle and beetled off from there.

I had made up my mind to never write anything on the magic that I had encountered that evening, as the omens were not in its favor. However, I write it now, because I have realized that the magic itself was the first omen, very much pleasant and favorable.