Blog 7: The dying of the light

A short walk from my room through an avenue of towering bamboo takes me out onto the vast mosaic paddy fields of the Brahmaputra river basin. In the distance, the Himalayas are a freeze-frame tsunami in petrol blue, rising suddenly out of the ground where two great tectonic plates collided millions of years ago, one sliding inexorably under the other ever since. On some days the hills seem closer, disaster more imminent. On others they retreat behind low smoky clouds, the threat of violence still present even if the show of force is not.

I’ve taken to walking to this spot and watching the dying of the light. It’s a precious time, a few careful minutes between the roaring heat of the afternoon and the soupy night air thick with insects and smoke. In this moment everything seems to soften slightly, the landscape becoming watery and dripping down into the night. From here no two days are the same; a blazing blood orange sunset is followed by a protracted, cinematic fade-to-black the next night. Behind me on a thin dirt road a slow procession of people bounce home, forming a string of Christmas lights against the cold emerald and earthy tones of the landscape. A whole family balance on a bicycle or motorbike, six or seven people cram into a tuktuk with shopping bags and sacks of grain, and young boys cling to the sides of a flatbed trailer being yanked along by a curmudgeonly Massey Ferguson tractor. Their clothes are pink and orange and green, purple and red and yellow, stripes and slogan tees and knock-off sports jerseys, polka dots and intricately patterned handwoven fabric. There are no rules- only colour, lots of colour.

As the light dies, the land springs to life. Somewhere down the road a night market is accelerating towards a cacophonous throb, a hundred naked lightbulbs spotlighting the wares of taciturn sellers with shifting eyes and fingers like spider’s legs. Further away on the highway, buses scream past in a shower of light and sound, listing like a theme park ride as they scatter cows, goats and handcarts in their wake.

Here in this moment though, there is peace. I barter for a few more quiet seconds of grey dusk but it is already gone, darkness spreading like spilled ink on the sky.

I will have to come back tomorrow.