Green Grass in the Pink Plain (A Short Story)

Green Grass in the Pink Plain

Green grass survives in the pink plain. A constant breeze is blowing gently across it. Such a splendid scene to watch! Whenever the breeze comes across it, the grass is swaying gently.

                                              ‘‘Zee…zee…zee…zee…zee…zee…zee’’

The buzzing sound appears without stopping. A little bee transgresses into the pink plain. Maybe it likes to find food. Its food is nectar. It is flying over the grass, wandering here and there.

‘‘Wow! This place is really nice. But I can’t find any flowers that can give nectar I want. So, it’s no use finding food here. But, I want to enjoy its beauty,’’ mused the bee.

                                                ‘‘Zee…zee…zee…zee…zee…zee…zee’’

Finally, the flying sound of the bee diminishes into the distance.

…

Before much time has passed, there comes another sound.

                                    ‘‘Stomp…stomp…stomp…stomp…stomp…stomp…stomp’’

A farmer with a long boot approaches the edge of the plain. There are several lines on his face that show how old he is. He is carrying a rake on his shoulder. The hands that are holding the handle are really strong.

From the edge he looks into the plain.

‘‘Huh, Green grass!’’ He looks at it thoroughly. Then, a smile appears in his face. He inhales deeply. The cool breeze is coming across the grass as he puts down the rake from his shoulder. ‘‘What a pleasant smell! Is that a present from nature?’’ exclaims the farmer.

Suddenly, he remembers his wife and children who are waiting for his return. He picks the rake again and prepares to step towards the farm house. He braces himself up and goes back home. He does not go into the plain but he turns his head over his shoulder to glance at it.

…

A shadow can be visible from the distance. Not quite distinct. It was coming nearer to get more distinct. Is he a traveller? He cannot be the one. There is a camera hanging around his neck. He also has a hat on. He is the third man who has come to the edge of the plain.

When he reaches the edge, he senses the eccentricities of the place. ‘‘Oh! The plain is pink. But the grass is green. This plain is extraordinary,’’ remarked the man.

He takes out a book and writes down the geography of the place carefully. He looks out into the plain. He takes pictures of it from every corner and every perspective. He enters the plain and surveys the grass. ‘‘It is normal. Only the plain is extraordinary,’’ said the man.

An idea comes into his head. But he cannot find any solution to it. He needs to ask his friend, the painter. Because the mix of colours is not his cup of tea, only his friend can know the meaning of colours. When you mix pink and green, what colour will you get? When I meet him, I’ll ask him. He studies the plain thoroughly and then, leaves.

…

When a city man relates about the pink plain and the green grass to another fellow man, the latter thinks deeply and says, ‘‘It’s ridiculous. Nonsense. It is out of logic.’’ He denies, ‘‘this is a nonsense proposition’’. He does not accept it. Actually, he is a pragmatic. The first city man thinks that the only way to prove him the existence of the plain and grass is to bring the man there.

Logically speaking, how does the grass grow in a pink plan? It happens through nature. Then, let him ask a question. The first city man who relates about the plain says that his words are true. So, he proposes his supposition.

‘‘Ok! Suppose this proposition is impossible. But I believe it. What will you say of Darwin theory: Men are descendants of the monkey? Do you accept the fact?’’ asks the first city man.

 ‘‘I agree, of course, because the majority accept it,’’ replies the pragmatic man.

‘‘Ok. Let it be. Then, I’ll say one thing. Suppose monkeys live up in the trees. Because they are descending from the trees, they become human beings. Or if the monkeys on the trees are the origin of species, then human beings must live on the trees.’’

The pragmatic man stares at the man, and he murmurs, ‘‘Hmmm, nonsense, it’s rubbish!’’

The first city man who says about the plain feels contended with his hypothetical explanation. You might wonder if he is an environmentalist or an ideologist or a philosopher.

But, the plain really exists. The bee knows it. The farmer knows it. The journalist knows it. The first city man who tells about the plain knows it. The pragmatic man who cannot accept the existence of the plain knows it.

Then, how many people know about it?

Let it be. It is true that there are few who accept it.

Consider it. What about the pink plain and green grass? Can they change colour or can they still be the same?

The real predominant factor of the world is changing. Pink can become green. Green grass can become pink. But there is one thing for you. If you want them to believe your story, you yourself must be a writer. If not, no one can say such a thing.●

(Extracted from ‘‘A Classic Night at Café Blues and Other Stories by San Lin Tun)