From the Eyes of the White Nomad

 

Aanshika Mohapatra

 

I did not mean to drift into a war zone.

Truly, I did not.

I was just following a very promising smell. Something like... roasted sesame and despair. And before I realized my folly, I was floating right over a checkpoint. Happens to the best of us, in my defence. Clouds are not exactly known for navigation. We are basically sky jellyfish with commitment issues.

Anyway.

The humans down there were doing their usual things: shouting, negotiating, pretending they knew what they were doing. You would think that after centuries of conflict, they would try something new, like rock-paper-scissors or maybe synchronized swimming, but apparently not.

What caught my attention was the handful of women walking through all that noise. Sharp, careful movements. They did not shout. They did not flinch. They did not carry weapons — unless you count the bags full of documents and that very dangerous thing they call "resolve."

I drifted lower.

I am nosy like that.

They were talking about peace. Not the romanticized kind, but the kind that required fixing laws, mending communities, and convincing powerful men to stop thumping on tables long enough to listen.

Phew. Tough job, I know. I once tried convincing a thundercloud not to strike a radio tower. Failed miserably. He ended up with sparks everywhere.

These women kept going, stitching plans with patience, pulling threads no one else noticed, arguing when needed, holding silence when that spoke louder.

I liked them.

So I decided to stick around, hovering like an overly affectionate ceiling fan. I tried to offer shade because, honestly, heat should not be allowed during geopolitical tension. It makes tempers worse, actually. A soldier squinted up at me and muttered something about "ominous weather."

I took it as a compliment.

Humans rarely look up unless something is falling. They forget there is a whole sky above their arguments. But I watch everything: the protests, the promises, the way hope resurfaces like a stubborn bubble.

And lately, I have learned something peculiar.

The women are the only ones who walk like they expect the ground to change. Everyone else stands as if nothing ever will.

So I hover and listen.

Not because I can fix anything — I am atmospheric fluff, for goodness' sake — but because someone should witness the people who keep pushing the world forward even when the world refuses to budge.

The soldiers eventually went back to yelling. The politicians returned to their speeches. The checkpoints stayed where they were.

But the women kept moving.

And I stayed above them, drifting quietly.

Not raining, not thundering. Just waiting.

Clouds do not predict the future. But we do know when the air changes.

Tonight, the air feels strange. Pressured. Heavy.

Something is about to break.

I just cannot tell yet whether it will be the sky or the people beneath it.

 

Pic source: GEMINI AI