Waiting for the night to begin
If there is music in your ears, sunshine over your face, strength in your back, food inside your stomach and clothes upon your skin, what…
If there is music in your ears, sunshine over your face, strength in your back, food inside your stomach and clothes upon your skin, what would you complain about? These were some of the many thoughts flirting with our protagonist as he stared intensely at the horizon, firmly seated on the parapet of the terrace, contemplating matters much beyond his realm.
For instance, what makes a man content? How long before the pursuit of happiness turns invalid? When is he supposed to pursue happeningness? Who has the cure for premature midlife crisis? Why are we here?
Too many question marks. So few full stops.
As the sun reached its final moments for the day and birds of varied background — barbets, bee-eaters, drongos, swallows, sunbirds, and many more — celebrated the farewell in their unique ways, he wondered about the subject of change. “Don’t these stupid birds get bored of doing the same shit again and again? Who are they trying to impress? Don’t they know that the world is going to end soon? What’s stopping them from… well.. flying away?”
Maybe the only thing constant about change is nothing really changes.
Maybe not.
He concluded to himself that although those avian creatures might be free in their fancy movements across the sky, they were indeed caged by nature. So, in more ways than one, they were like the rest of us. This morbid thought comforted him for a while.
As the clouds soaked in the inky hue and the ambiance turned gloomy, he began to focus on the stars. They weren’t there initially but suddenly started sprouting out of nowhere. As he concentrated on one, he’d quickly notice the birth of another not very far away from his peripheral vision. Before he knew, there were so many stars — all vying for the lonely moon’s attention.
As expected, he tried to draw a parallel between him and our planet’s sole satellite. Just like the moon, he looked all clear on the outside but held deep hidden secrets. Also, both went through phases only to get back to where they were in the beginning. Again a rhythmic existence which isn’t going anywhere in particular. He stared at its sharp curve and asked without a sound, “Who are you waiting for?”
Thoughts have a horrible habit of getting lost sometimes, and our hero kept getting lost in his own thoughts. He was distracted again and again by the fleeting airplanes who blinked — red on the left wing and green on the right — as they traversed the canvas of his kaleidoscope. “Oh, is anybody I know seated in that plane? Somebody who might know somebody I know?”
Theories without limbs don’t travel far, now, do they — unlike those planes up above?
Soon enough, the crickets entered the scene and played their orchestra. Let’s call it, the music of the inevitable night. For all he knows, those tiny musicians are going to die the following day but they are playing as if there is no tomorrow. “Good for them,” he presumed.
He could hear faint noises from afar. Arnab screaming his lungs out at somebody he disagrees with. A kid pleading for forgiveness to his mother as she beats the hell out of him. A passing auto-rickshaw with Bhojpuri music on. A Royal Enfield pathetically screaming for attention. Some faint sounds of his everyday reality distancing themselves from his rendezvous with the view above.
At this point, the bats entered the picture as they zig-zagged up and down, appearing more like drunk kites and less like the marvelous mammals they are made out to be.
As he sat there, our hero learned something very profound. He was always under the delusion that he can be needy as he can’t deal with solitude. However, that evening proved, beyond a reasonable doubt, his immense delight in being with himself. Technically speaking, he will be fine.
It was only when the mosquitoes descended on him and started mistaking his body for dinner that he had to leave his spot and hurry down to his apartment. After all, those bloody insects have little patience for existential worries. They wanted to offer him company but at a decent cost: they must get their fill from him and he must keep his philosophy to himself.
“Thanks, no thanks,” he bade them goodbye.