{Link :One amongst the Most Expensive Paintings and I fell in love with the sense of tranquility captured in this master-piece} and I felt like putting down my thoughts under the series (Still Life – What I wrote for Sunflowers by Vincent Van Gogh)


{Backdrop :Someone told me about this new Poetry classes in the town.   
People write about fruits, flowers, jugs, vases, tables, chairs, empty room etc., which sit still and stare back at them. I walked a corridor, up some stairs, and down another corridor, before stopping in front of the classroom
I sat next to a man, who is younger to me, who has a cheerful smile on his face and a happy tone. He showed me a few lines that he wrote for this painting. Through his words, I found him as a well-versed, extensively travelled person. He seemed to have walked across various countries, sleepy villages, which I dream of. Always. How should I start my thoughts for this piece? I closed my eyes and recalled those great lines}   
An Old man, in some rustic land, wrote a poem , many years ago-

“For I have had too much

Of apple-picking : I am overtired

Of the great harvest I myself desired...”

{After a while, I am up to read aloud to the world, what I wrote}

We arrived at their doorstep in our weekend dresses.
Like those songs about changing seasons in the fields that are far away from the big towns.
We, fruits from the winter fields, reached the market places buzzing with activity, in wooden boxes.
Many faces stared at us from distance, and inhaled sweet scent of our bodies.
A cheerful looking woman lifted us, gently, out of the wooden box, and covered us in a soft white cloth.
After reaching her house, she kept us in a white porcelain plate.
I am glad that she did not separate me from my friend.
We nodded our smiles at a few other brighter skinned mates with tangy attitude.
They are sharing the room, the wooden stool, the family dinnertime with us.
The little girl and her older brother, in white garments, sat up close to us and held their breath.
We, Young and Fresh Apples, for the first time ever in our lives, traveled beyond those orchards,
where we grew up.
Where, young women with lovers, used to wake us up with Good Morning kisses, with their delicate
hands caressing smoothly our round juicy bellies.
Each one of us, now, wear memories of those bright days, of the air lighter and cooler, moving up from meadows with swirling waists, where one can see no black-coated roads.
We grew bigger and rounded under the open skies. Someone brought the July rains, which laughed softly on our plumper and juicier shoulders, and the rain drops gurgled past, one fine evening.
The air of the orchards grew thicker, sweeter with our light multi-layered scent of our bodies and months rolled by deliriously.
Gentle folk in clumsy dresses, their calm foreheads glistening with sweat, walked in their rugged and durable feet around us to check , to be sure that we are free from bruises, holes, scars and even bites.
They worked hard in the fields until the evening, and at times, one could hear the light-hearted teasing exchanges between them trekking downwards.
Many glad evenings appeared and stayed with us.
To watch young people merrily dancing for some musical beat, under the orchard trees. And down the path towards their village, after a day’s labor.
We never wanted to part with those sweet evenings and we shut them, carefully, in our palms.
We observed silently their frail gestures of love, the first ever bites of love, in the cool nights and enclosed them in our sweet hugs.
Now we are here, so invitingly sweet, blushing with mysterious love stories that rise slowly from our soft skins.
Everyone wishes to come closer to us, to understand the color of the country we are from.
To understand the language, baskets-full of stories, poor people murmured around the dinner tables
in old cottages with thatched roofs, far away from the big towns. 
The stories from fields of winter, which they shared with us in the orchards, later.
The following day. When they touched us – the Apples with their delicate hands.