The stuff dreams are made of.

I tried closing the window but it wouldn’t shut. Across the wall, in the cemented backyard of the neighboring house, I could see a young Nepalese girl wearing a red Salwaar Kameez unhooking saris and shirts from the clothes line. It was dark and overcast, and the girl was struggling to get a grip on the clothes that were flapping wildly in the wind. I stood by the window, transfixed by what appeared to me as a delicately choreographed dance – girl against nature, red against grey. I knew then that I dreamt in color.