Wind from the Fields

She stole me. Upon arriving at my room in the village of Natungram, I intended to get to work right away to collect images from the long train journey: an elderly woman’s hand reaching through metal bars in dramatic light, a hurried man balancing a large basket on his head, little boy toes propped against the wall, a trio of girls wearing makeup along with their young mothers in fancy dress, vendor after vendor selling tea and guava and safety pins and sweets. I set up my laptop on the wooden table near the foot of my bed to document these vignettes, but before I could even open its case, a cool rush of late-summer air kissed me, open-mouthed. The door slammed shut and a whirlpool of wind swirled around, blowing the blanket from my bed.

In a trance, I walked to the windowsill and gaped at the open sky and the mile of rice paddies stretching out before taking pause along waving arms of palm trees in the distance. White egrets swam across the sky, bellies full of frogs and bugs from the muddy fields below, flying off to do whatever it is that birds fly off to do.

Green shoots of rice bowed en masse, like rippling fingers moving towards me in continuous waves. Each one brought a smaller kiss of cool air to my cheeks, keeping me entranced at the window until their peaceful rhythm lulled my eyelids and I laid down for a nap.