Not Paris

This could be anywhere else. It isn't Paris because I am not there. I'm reminded of the Hyderabad airport and its endless glassy corridors. Except of course for the unapologetic reds and the sunrise, the bending rays of a warm sun on a cold morning lashing deep into these corridors. I can't believe I am saying this, but the flight was most comfortable with a bag of goodies to take back. Somewhere in the middle of the night - a prolonged night, when you're flying in the direction the earth rotates - I think I saw sunrise. Or perhaps the hope of one. The horizon, fringed with a shadow of red made me believe I might be able to see Paris from the sky. But all that was there were networks of gold, like egg yolks, with golden veins spilling around. I was straining my eyes so hard to see the Eiffel Tower, I must have imagined it a few times in my delirium. Then the heavy eyelids closed again and it was dark when the flight landed. The connecting flight might afford a better view. The next time I am flying over Europe, I should really have a visa to leave these confines.