Burano is a freshly bought unused color palette. On first sight, one
might think the city to be a victim of the outrage of the goddess Iris,
who in a fit of rage hurled all the pretty colors of her rainbow at the
city. Petite three-storeyed buildings are neatly lined in a row and
colored with the loveliest shades of green, yellow, red, blue and other
pretty colors. Well-trimmed potted plants bedecked the balconies; I
almost envisaged lovely women waving at us, their laughter as soft as
tinkling bells. The boats there jibed beautifully. As if not wanting to be
left out, they were also splashed with the same style of colors. Soft rays
of the sun reflected off the brilliant houses. The matte brown
cobble-stoned and winding streets contrasted well with the fulgent colors.
Ruminations stormed in my head in a colorful whirlwind. The bright
yellow umbrella above my head reminded me of Wordsworth’s
daffodils. Ten thousand saw I before my eyes. The blue rebounded off
the three-storeyed house on the other side of the canal that snaked
through the thronging place. It reminded me of Tennyson’s Brook. It
slipped and slid and gloomed and glanced in my mind. As various poets
and their poems fleeted in my head, a sudden sense of tranquility took
over me. The past and future floated out of my brain. I let the
chromatic vista consume. All I could think was how bewitching the
realm of imagination could be. A beautiful mind blossomed within me.
Achieving nirvana wasn’t such an elephant task.
All that was required
was love, colors, and a little light.
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