Morning breeze in Niraja's garden

             The radiant sun had just begun its climb over Nilgiris, as the mist slowly dissolved beneath its warm glow, casting light on the red clay tiles of Niraj's roof. Niraja stepped onto the red oxide floor of her verandah, barefoot, feeling the cool earth beneath her feet.
       The morning breeze swayed gently, carrying the fragrances of roses, while dew drops clung to leaves and petals of the garden, framing her entrance in a vibrant, living welcome. Inside the house, the fragrance spread its essence, truly divine.
       The walls whispered her heart and creative hands, adorned with intricate murals and Tanjore paintings; each stroke told a story, each color captivated the soul, echoing a timeless grace.
       The soul of the hall was captured in the elegant beauty of her cane sofa, neatly lined with square pillows imprinted with a single green leaf on a half-white background.
        On the low table, her crochet work lay beautifully, echoing the theme of sunrise, each loop crafted with patience and care. As her creativity wandered and stilled upon the threshold, a kolam of dots and curves appeared, symbolizing tradition and welcoming the early dawn.
       Niraja moved slowly through her garden. She knelt before a rose plant, lifting a blood-red rose to her sensitive nose, inhaling its perfume as though breathing in the essence of serenity. Sunbeams caught a thread of her hair, while the bamboo hummed its own gentle rhythm. And for a moment, nature felt perfectly attuned to her gentle presence.
        In Coonoor, mornings could feel infinite. The fresh breeze carried the scent of lemonades and the Nilgiris’ evergreen fragrance; the cool essence of eucalyptus oil drifting from towering trees. Niraja quietly knew the pulse of life in its simplest forms. The earth beneath her feet, the nature surrounding her warm abode, and the colors and creativity poured into every corner of her sanctuary all permeated a deep, abiding peace in stillness.

          As she walked through the portico, holding a bunch of rose flowers, the two bamboo chairs to her right swayed in harmony with her humble steps, and the mural shimmered with unspoken love. In her divine hall, the Tanjore painting of Lord Krishna eating butter from a golden pot whispered its blessings to the gentle Niraja, while sunlight lingered longer, its rays following her gaze.


        By the time morning had fully arrived, Niraja entered her room to the left of the hall and sat at her table, brush in hand. As the first stroke touched the board, magic and miracles began to bloom from her creative mind.
      Outside, the flowers and plants leaned closer, knowing well that they were no longer just part of her garden, they were now part of her own art. And the morning did not end, it softened. Niraja painted not to escape the world, but to hold it gently, carrying the rhythm of culture and tradition.

        In her quiet abode, life felt content, complete, resting in the serenity, she herself had created.