Often, late at night, I come out of my study, stand by the heavy iron gate of our home and place my face in a space between its bars. The bars are always coarse and cold. At that moment, I am a prisoner of life, looking out into the open sky, seldom black as tar, unending, unrelenting. There I stand and take a deep breath in, not for the sake of oxygen, but to feel that rich, unpolluted atmosphere. Night has a distinct smell to itself, if you have ever noticed. It is that mixture of dry and wet, flower and dust, tender and fierce. Presence and absence. It is made up of opposites, and that makes it special and memorable.
There was a
young night-blossoming jasmine in our little garden at that time. The shrub had
grown taller than me. At night, its scent would fill the air over five houses.
In all probability, nightlife zoomed around the plant in disco mood all through
the dark hours. Fireflies glowed around the plant in their strange starry, cotton
ball-like floating fashion. Moths flapped their ugly wings round the space and
sat on its branches as their little caterpillars chewed through its leaves.
Tiny creeping insects of uncountable intricacies and styles played on its
leaves and in its flowers. As the sun inched back towards the sky, the little
playthings of nature crawled back into their crevices. The plant itself
released some more scent. Then it went to sleep.
I would wake
up just a little before that. You know that time when the black of the sky has
just begun to discolour, there is a hesitant brownish gleam along the horizon
and somewhere at a distance, the birds have just started to caw-caw but are
still too lazy to leave the comfort of their nests? At that time would I sneak
out of my bed, directly out of the door and fix my head into the space in the
gate. I would inhale until my chest was stretched, my lungs cried out for want
of space but the decrepit warmth of the bed had not yet been replaced with the
withering night’s cold cologne. I waited. I exhaled and inhaled again. The
tightness of the lungs would not go. The lightness of the air was never enough.
After having
an eyeful of the empty streets, the occasional watchful dogs and a litter of
pigs, I would retire to my house. Oh, the wretched heat! I would rush to the
bathroom with the wish of quick relief. Back in my study, I would sit down with
a cup of black coffee (with the same brownish gleam of the sky) and pour it in
in a few sips. There was, as it is there today, the music of Mozart and
Beethoven. The first one to wake up next would be my father with his difficult
footsteps and a trembling hand, which by the time I saw him, would be holding a
metal glass full of tea.
When he fell
ill a couple of months later, the routine of smelling the night was replaced
with the rush to work. The many panics of life expanded by magnitudes. The
lightness of the night air turned too insignificant under the many weights of
that other, harsher reality. An unimaginable change took place. Work was more
welcoming than home. The day was happier than the night. Why, you would ask?
People die at night. Which night would he die? This one? I would rather live
till the late night and study, have a constant check of his bloodstream and
breathing.
The young
plant grew old and died in a couple of months. My father died in another few.
It was day.
A week
later, I was at rest. He took the troubles of a tense life with him. Some of
the lightness returned. The routine did not. Business had etched out for itself
a place in my day and my night. Idleness brought uncertainty and discomfort.
There was remorse and resentment at the lost and incapability. There was anger.
Two years
later, I made my comeback into the night. It was not a determined attempt, not
at all aimed at violating the night. It was only an unwatched foray into the
softness of the late hours. There was no jasmine. There was no scent. There
were no brown gleams (or any colours, for that matter). Then the night appeared
in her true sense. Where were the moths and the butterflies and the fireflies,
I wondered, where was the nocturnal tribe? Who was playing in the night today?
Was not the night lonely now when it had no one? With the tightness in my
chest, I unlocked the gate and came out into the open. I walked on the street.
I had wings, so I flew. I chewed on the leaves. I glowed like a Diwali light. I
floated like cotton balls. The night came and covered me in her blanket. Her
ways are abrupt. There is no sincerity in the night’s manners. There is no
knowing of her plans. She is full of surprises. However, that night, all she
had for me was memories.
👌🏾😍
ReplyDeleteWow sir i really enjoyed while reading it🙃🙃
DeleteAn eloquent & enthralling article, Sir!
ReplyDelete