Raindrops glistened like little silver needles, caught in the flash of a lightning bolt, prepared to strike down an unseen enemy in eerie orange glow of sodium vapor lamps. The rain was different, neither hard nor light, firmly placed in the nondescript middle, lacking in character; however the nascent night was another matter altogether.
The incessant symphony of raindrops were the only indication of their existence as I threaded the alleyways soaking in darkness with an ease that comes from years of familiarity. A sad darkness diluted by stray lights, little stragglers that refused to be cowered; and unloved by the denizens of the city, an unwelcome pause in their perpetual motions of their lives. My blazing red jumper and thick grey woolen cap embellished with intricate warli motifs (the stick figures that stereotype Indian art, if you're unfamiliar) would have robbed me of my undisturbed solitude if not for the welcome blanket of darkness. The stillness outside with the ever repeating pitter patter of the rain was in sharp contrast with the barely restrained turmoil inside my not too beloved head. How I sometimes wish my head would shut up. Like a knife through melting butter, I walked aware of nothing but myself.
Sometimes all it takes is a simple unexplained clap to wake you up: that came as the unwelcome orange glow of streetlights, robbing me of my cover and blanket of darkness, of security and anonymity. With it came dozens or so of shadowy figures rushing home trying and failing to stay ahead of the rain. I noticed: noticed how I was the knife through butter when I wanted to be the bird in the forest, how tracks were slipping by on my playlist one after another and I was only dimly aware, their beauty unable to break through the haze of fear and uncertainty.
Stopping for a moment, my feet took me to the deserted sidewalk sprinkled with bleach, while my fingers were sliding across the screen looking for the kind of music that would let me feel through the walls. How frustrating it is to search for something not knowing what you're looking for. Much too long minutes later, I stumbled on a soft and emotive track, the night of the day that was my raging emotions, ironically courtesy of one of my friends who is fast paced music walking on two legs (you know who you are woman!). I turned around the steep bend in the road bathed in sodium vapor glow behind the veil of raindrops listening to the soft tune drowning out the unanswered questions for a second. The broad walkway lined by houses and majestic evergreen trees effortlessly playing the role of dark guardians in the rain was surprisingly bereft of any of our species; something that let me enjoy the pristine moment for what it was. A few footsteps later, right in the middle of the lonely street was a strange, yet not so strange sight. A mother hurrying home with her two daughters, both toddlers, the young clutched against her breast and the older hanging off her arm with effort; struggling to keep peace with her little legs. All three clad in midnight black purdahs from head to toe, dirty and wet from the unrelenting drizzle. I couldn't bring myself to decide what I felt was anger at the society that painted the three women or sorrow at the mother and two little girls whose futures were, in all probability already claimed by darkness a shade deeper than the midnight black of the purdahs.
I couldn't follow them, so I turned back. While returning I was surprised by the sheer variety of human chords and tunes that adorned the unassuming street-side of a nameless area in a nameless city: two little boys excitedly eating candy and running home sharing an umbrella, a little boy of two or three being dragged home protesting by his slightly older sister, a girl of ten or twelve dancing to an imaginary jingle, two old men on doorsteps watching life passing by in companionable silence. So surprising was the feeling of gratefulness and gratitude that accompanied that it made me pause for a moment, unsure of where I was. How lucky was I to still see happiness in moments stolen from an unforgiving life in a third world country, existing from one crisis to another; how magnificent was the tapestry woven by millions of imperfect mothers, fathers, daughters and sons drowning in the tragedies everyday existence in this country, half a decade after freedom, yet pushing forward unassailably and inexplicably towards a dream of a future. A song of fire on the dawn of ice.
An hour later I was back to the familiar warmth of my home, slightly less confused, richer by few thoughts and mosaics, humbled by beauty yet filled with something akin to hope.
The incessant symphony of raindrops were the only indication of their existence as I threaded the alleyways soaking in darkness with an ease that comes from years of familiarity. A sad darkness diluted by stray lights, little stragglers that refused to be cowered; and unloved by the denizens of the city, an unwelcome pause in their perpetual motions of their lives. My blazing red jumper and thick grey woolen cap embellished with intricate warli motifs (the stick figures that stereotype Indian art, if you're unfamiliar) would have robbed me of my undisturbed solitude if not for the welcome blanket of darkness. The stillness outside with the ever repeating pitter patter of the rain was in sharp contrast with the barely restrained turmoil inside my not too beloved head. How I sometimes wish my head would shut up. Like a knife through melting butter, I walked aware of nothing but myself.
Sometimes all it takes is a simple unexplained clap to wake you up: that came as the unwelcome orange glow of streetlights, robbing me of my cover and blanket of darkness, of security and anonymity. With it came dozens or so of shadowy figures rushing home trying and failing to stay ahead of the rain. I noticed: noticed how I was the knife through butter when I wanted to be the bird in the forest, how tracks were slipping by on my playlist one after another and I was only dimly aware, their beauty unable to break through the haze of fear and uncertainty.
Stopping for a moment, my feet took me to the deserted sidewalk sprinkled with bleach, while my fingers were sliding across the screen looking for the kind of music that would let me feel through the walls. How frustrating it is to search for something not knowing what you're looking for. Much too long minutes later, I stumbled on a soft and emotive track, the night of the day that was my raging emotions, ironically courtesy of one of my friends who is fast paced music walking on two legs (you know who you are woman!). I turned around the steep bend in the road bathed in sodium vapor glow behind the veil of raindrops listening to the soft tune drowning out the unanswered questions for a second. The broad walkway lined by houses and majestic evergreen trees effortlessly playing the role of dark guardians in the rain was surprisingly bereft of any of our species; something that let me enjoy the pristine moment for what it was. A few footsteps later, right in the middle of the lonely street was a strange, yet not so strange sight. A mother hurrying home with her two daughters, both toddlers, the young clutched against her breast and the older hanging off her arm with effort; struggling to keep peace with her little legs. All three clad in midnight black purdahs from head to toe, dirty and wet from the unrelenting drizzle. I couldn't bring myself to decide what I felt was anger at the society that painted the three women or sorrow at the mother and two little girls whose futures were, in all probability already claimed by darkness a shade deeper than the midnight black of the purdahs.
I couldn't follow them, so I turned back. While returning I was surprised by the sheer variety of human chords and tunes that adorned the unassuming street-side of a nameless area in a nameless city: two little boys excitedly eating candy and running home sharing an umbrella, a little boy of two or three being dragged home protesting by his slightly older sister, a girl of ten or twelve dancing to an imaginary jingle, two old men on doorsteps watching life passing by in companionable silence. So surprising was the feeling of gratefulness and gratitude that accompanied that it made me pause for a moment, unsure of where I was. How lucky was I to still see happiness in moments stolen from an unforgiving life in a third world country, existing from one crisis to another; how magnificent was the tapestry woven by millions of imperfect mothers, fathers, daughters and sons drowning in the tragedies everyday existence in this country, half a decade after freedom, yet pushing forward unassailably and inexplicably towards a dream of a future. A song of fire on the dawn of ice.
An hour later I was back to the familiar warmth of my home, slightly less confused, richer by few thoughts and mosaics, humbled by beauty yet filled with something akin to hope.
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