Two Pictures from Bhagsunag

The following are two excerpts from my personal diary. Both were written in the moment. I'm not sure they have a point.

11/03/07
Ranu's Cafe
Bhagsunag

The air is cold, its chill aided by the moisture it is laden with from the clouds not far above. In front of me a mountain stream flows, filled with large grey rocks (granite?) making uncounted tiny waterfalls that splash and churn noisily. But what draws my eye most is an image of such poetic beauty to me that my eyes fill and a lump enters my throat: Further down the hill is a little playground with swings, a slide, and monkey bars. A small Tibetan boy monk sits swinging in one of the seats, clearly lost in the dreamy wonderment of its motion. Occasionally he swings harder and jumps off at the top of the arc, his robes billowing, making a cloud of crimson as he returns to earth before bounding back to start again.

12/03/07
Sher-e-Punjab Dhaba
Bhagsunag

I know the mountains hover above me but they are lost in the grey mists. It is raining again (three days on and off now), and the clouds stream only a few hundred feet above. In the muted light the earthy tones seem to shine somehow - the rich deep brown-green moss on the stonework, the glowing yellow-browns of the mountain grasses, and the somehow vibrant grey of the slate shingles on the roof in front of me. They glisten. It's cold though. Very cold.
Sitting here waiting for my usual breakfast of mixed veg parantha (like a filled nan bread) with a preserved lemon, carrot, and chilli chutney, and steaming hot black tea (20Rs all up) the cold begins to seep in. It must be only 3 or 4 degrees, my hands are icy, and when the tea comes I grip the glass tightly. At home I would find it too hot to hold, but here it is nicely warming.

As I stare at the dance the mountains and the clouds make I exhale and the breath clouds around me, thick like smoke. It can be hard to tell the difference sometimes.
The parantha arrives and it begins to pour again, the temperature dropping further. A sparrow lands in front of me, sheltering from the rain no doubt. It shivers, and searching my memory I can't recall a time when I have seen a bird do that.
On the ground beside me (the restaurant is open to the elements, having only a roof) water courses through the grass, forming little rivulets that run over the stones and paves in a grey flow. The chilli in the chutney begins its burn, warming my body (they do great paranthas here!). Today is a day for sitting, talking, and writing and not much else. It seems most of the locals think likewise, as the surrounding shops remain closed despite it being past 09:30.
Looking up again I see the browns, greens, and greys and am happy. My breath hangs in front of me.