The Magic of Life

Today, he had been sitting there, peering into his universe, searching for an answer. Today, he had been sitting there wondering about his need to write, why do I need to write? But today the universe was not talking to him, he had reached an impasse. Something was forcing him out of his universe. Trying to find his focus, he stared at the shared reality around him.

It had grown cold in the last few days; he rubbed his hands, wondered if he should order for another coffee. He groped about his many pockets in search of the wily smokes; they always found a way of disappearing when needed the most. Just as he found the cigarettes and lighter, he saw the Russian.

The Russian, was trying to figure out the perfect angle, endeavoring to capture, a moment of perfect light at the dragon fountain, the dragon fountain from which flowed an unending stream of liquid light.

“Wait another hour, the light gets better.” He knew, he had spent the last few days sitting at the very same spot, looking at the light around him, trying to capture it in the words that he wrote.

The Russian looked at him, a look of utter incomprehension on his face. Oh, the Russian did not understand English, he thought to himself. Now, it was his turn to be at a loss, how do I explain him what I meant. Before he could start making crazy gestures, the Russian called out to her. He had not realized that the Russian was not alone. The Russian explained to his companion that the guy at the table was trying to say something in English which he obviously did not understand.

She looked at him and he repeated, “Wait for another hour, the light gets really good.”

“Aah!” She smiled and translated it to her companion. Now he understood, the Russian conveyed his impatience and proceeded to take the photographs.

He observed the Russians, his curiosity provoked, he sensed the moment growing, something was about to happen. The universe conspired and he lit up. The Russian having finished taking the photographs turned his attention to him and saw him smoking. Gestured towards him with his chin and asked her something.

She paused looking for the right words.  “Yes you can.” he said, offering one of his, such things don’t need words to be expressed, he thought to himself.

It made her uncomfortable, “Are you sure we can smoke, in this territory?”

The English was good but needed a little polishing, “Sure, I smoke here all the time.”

The Russian fished out a pack of cigarettes from his jacket, took out a cigarette and quickly lit up.

One hand on the chair, she asked, “Can we sit here?”

“Sure.” he said, closing his notebook and capping his pen.

While they smoked, she tried to make small talk, “Are you a writer?”

It did not surprise him, a lot of people had been giving him that all knowing stare the past few days. But yes, she was the first to put words to their collective thoughts. “No. Not yet.”

She smiled, “So what do you write about, fantasy?”

It was a gorgeous smile. Involuntarily, smiling back he found himself somewhat distracted, he wondered if his smile was as gorgeous as hers. The words sank in, they surprised him, he tilted his head and wondered aloud, “Fantasy? No. I write about Life.”

She looked quizzically at the notebook, there on the cover was written, MAJIC, in bold blue ink. “Oh, that!” He replied without thinking, “Life, my friend, is full of Magic.”

Her grey-green Ural eyes lit up. She smiled, he smiled and this time he knew, it was gorgeous too. The Russian joined in as the smile spread around the table, such things needed no translations either, The Light of The Souls, reflected.

He thanked the universe, yes, I write for The Magic that I see in the world around mi.