This morning I woke up with visions of pink lotuses in my head.
When I was eleven, we went on a family trip to Orissa. Driving between cities one early morning, we came upon dozens of small ponds, each with many spectacular, shocking pink lotuses. (What would you call that exact shade, I wonder: fuchsia? magenta? rani-pink?) Even at that early hour, or perhaps because of it, these flowers would demand attention.
Look at me, each proud and eternal bloom said. I exist for the sole purpose of beauty. What, as you rush by in your haste, is your purpose?
The color and audacity of that has lain buried in my memory. What does it mean, to have the same flowers in front of my eyes, so vividly and so much later in life?