Old part of Bombay. Defunct cotton mill, large and cavernous. Car left in a lane. Waiting alone in the mill for someone late. Supine on a wooden cot by the little office, hands behind head. Mill floor filled with silent machinery and looms, some tall, some meek, all dusty. A few sheet-covered hulks, others dark steel and yellowed belt intricacies. Ruined cobwebs. Faint smell of old oil mixed with dust. Quietude, world receded. Far above, gabled tin roof skylights. Beams of weak sunlight slanting down, pathways for ancient dust rising and falling lazily. Coos and flutters of pigeons unseen in steel girders. Tranquil and melancholy, with serene ghosts of the past. A museum of revoked purpose, now become nature. Peaceful as lying on a forest floor with sunshine through trees.
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