The road was a shimmering blue-black stripe scored in the red soil. Small clusters of huts rose from the living earth, punctuated every so often by a more pukka construction, blue, green or white, all shawled and swathed by the dull green of coconut, and the duller olive of areca nut. Deep emotion swept him as he absorbed the familiar details. Lord, how could I have stayed away so long? Aaron was right, Chevathar is where we belong. He leaned as far as he could out of the carriage to take in everything that offered itself up to his remembering eye. They passed into an uninhabited stretch. This rock-and scree-strewn landscape possessed a beauty that owed nothing to nostalgia. The hand that had painted this landscape of God had, from time to time, daubed a brilliant mad contrast to the sober earth tones of the background – the jewelled red of a coral tree, spliced with the violent vermilion of flame of the forest, the yellow slash of laburnum, mellowed only by the soft violet of jacaranda.
What do You think about The House Of Blue Mangoes?
