viewpoint

It was a Wednesday morning. Sitting in an autorickshaw, waiting at the traffic lights, I was late for office. Constant glances at my watch didn't help abate the tension either. Frustrated, I looked out into the street. There, on the pavement, lay scattered some pieces of glass. Probably shattered from the window of some car, I thought. The rickshaw inched forward, a little, and the glass caught the sun.

A flash of light. It was as if the glass had imprisoned the sun's brilliance, and trapped it into a smooth, luminous reflection. The immense light burst forth, enveloping the cruel, jagged edges of the glass in a softness endowed by illuminance.

The rickshaw moved another inch. The vision shifted.

A rainbow of colours now greeted every eye, but there were none to attend. Drops of colour were held still in an embrace of time, unknown, bizarre colours, one blending into another, so fast they were nothing more than a blur. The cosmos shifted by in that one frozen shaft of time.

The traffic lights turned green. Engines roared to life, a flurry of activity followed, signalling the forward march of a mob of vehicles.

The glass pieces lay there, bleeding light and a myriad colours.

I passed them by. I was late.