Through some mysterious alchemy of light and humidity, Bombay's skies immediately before and after the monsoons come alive in a psychedelic palette of orange, pink, yellow and purple. They are a sight to behold, a spectacle equal parts cloud and color, forming a backdrop that dignifies and dramatizes the drudgery and dross of this creaking, chaotic city. Life is, for twenty minutes or so, back-lit as in the most indulgent movies.
But no one seems to notice.
Last week, an ordinary ride home from work was enlivened by precisely such a sight - monumental clouds changing shape and shade every moment, set against a fierce sun and blue-grey-gold skies. Something shifts within most people when they look up at the sky. But clouds, those ponderous, slow moving cathedrals of vapor have their own weighty magnificence. Looking at them on that weekday evening, watching as they let shafts of burnished September light break through, I wondered whether clouds didn't, in fact, lend the sun something of its power. After all, the sun without clouds is just a bald, shining statement of fact. Concealed, softened, its edges rubbed out and outlines blurred, it acquires its beautiful, even transcendent quality.
And so, looking, I let myself experience a moment of rare - and actual - luminosity. But then we rolled to a stop at a traffic light, and the passengers in the car next to me looked back at me, looking at them. The spell was broken, but it was enough.
Do yourself a favor. Look at the sky. But equally, look at the clouds.