A rejuvenating shower reduced the summer blaze to a simmer. When the sky had run dry of cold tears, a freshness had flowered. A grey francolin, drinking its nectar, stood on a log calling oft, as though, through a broadcast of the pleasant status quo, inviting all parties concerned to partake of the toast.
A tiger cub answered it.
Walking through a clearing and then betwixt a matrix of dry trees, she crossed to the lakeside and took her station by the picturesque Rajbagh, like a maiden out on a teatime amble in her rose garden. Then, she sat down lending herself to a round of well-studied portraiture, looking so important that even the sun, abandoning his static form, seemed to be revolving around her.
A tiger cub answered it.
Walking through a clearing and then betwixt a matrix of dry trees, she crossed to the lakeside and took her station by the picturesque Rajbagh, like a maiden out on a teatime amble in her rose garden. Then, she sat down lending herself to a round of well-studied portraiture, looking so important that even the sun, abandoning his static form, seemed to be revolving around her.
She didn’t have an expansive robe that had to be carried by a maid. Instead, she wore close-fitting stripes, with only a scrawny tail for a rear-end flourish, which rested gracefully behind her when seated. No alarm calls pierced the now tranquil air, the ambience being too clement for death to blacken with his noxious ink.
Being a lass of a little over a year, the colleen sported a list of features that couldn’t have been better if made to order. A big, rotund face lined with fluffy baby-hair sat like a crowning jewel on her chunky shoulders, and a pair of big rotund eyes, but not big enough to absorb all she wanted, took centre-stage on it. A long nose, arranged neatly in the middle, ended in a pink tip that anchored a white mouth ensconcing a pair of dark lips and flanked by truncated whiskers. And when she directed her pupils hither, perfection was staring at me.
She made it easy to see that it’s a wonderful world.
Being a lass of a little over a year, the colleen sported a list of features that couldn’t have been better if made to order. A big, rotund face lined with fluffy baby-hair sat like a crowning jewel on her chunky shoulders, and a pair of big rotund eyes, but not big enough to absorb all she wanted, took centre-stage on it. A long nose, arranged neatly in the middle, ended in a pink tip that anchored a white mouth ensconcing a pair of dark lips and flanked by truncated whiskers. And when she directed her pupils hither, perfection was staring at me.
She made it easy to see that it’s a wonderful world.
For a while she sat gazing at the lake, and I wondered if she was absorbed in thought as we are, or was simply reflecting the moment like a mirror of the invisible, occasionally casting us a glance for comic relief.
A few minutes later she responded to the itch in her feet and commenced her voyage to obscurity, showing me that a tigress was one who at first glance showed you a glimpse of the beyond and then kept you there long after she was gone.
A few more portraits of the lass:
TIGGA TALES 