Delhi and other forests

Every morning, I look at the swaying palms and an azure swimming pool from my balcony while drinking a passable Darjeeling. I stare at myself in an ornate mirror for some time in a glistening gallery. People walk past me without noticing me. Each morning, I eat a delicately perfumed almond muffin, a croissant, and some pineapple. On other days I choose the Danish.

The world in this part exists like a map. Eagles, bats, and kites fly from one continent to another easily and quickly – from Brazil to Canada to European Union. Wasps and monkeys regularly cross each other’s paths in this forest that seems to have no end and no beginning. Pink azalea and bougainvillea bloom poisonously. Snakes cannot be seen but their slithering can be traced on the ground at which nobody looks. Peacocks stand here transfixed for hours observing their reflection on the slanted glass. There is a fountain near the hidden piazza from which prosecco flows. Trees as old as souls live here. Any moment, ripe jackfruits and unripe mangoes could fall on you. Jasmine perfumes the air like gas.

The native inhabitants of this forest have never seen the outside world nor do they wish to. At night, they dream of the rings of Saturn.

This enchanted forest has a secret name that cannot be revealed. I am here as a spy. I will report back to myself my findings.

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