Before the Light Comes

The clock inside me says it is dawn. A faint glow escapes to the room through the curtains. The silence enveloping the room is comforting, like home. Along with my relaxed breathing, the warmth of the blankets is part of the silence. The air is sad, filled with longing for the winter night to return. The sadness, however, is serene. Gratefully, the darkness welcomes it.

I hear the sound of a train passing. I hear only the prolonged horn but my mind imagines the rest—the wheels grinding harmonically against the tracks; the tracks extending over all of space, infinite. With torches as eyes the train looks ahead and searches the darkness. It seems like it's near. As a child, I often used to pester my mom, “How is the train so close? I don’t remember seeing any railway tracks nearby!”. The train is not close. It is actually very far away. But it likes to spread a message each time the sun is about to rise in Paschim Vihar, New Delhi. The air is eager to follow the bidding of the train. 

And so every winter day, in my half-awake state which is followed by another few minutes to hours of sleep, I think of everything. I never remember those thoughts, but I do remember my disposition to think during those moments. Thought is somehow part of this image describing a dark sky coloured faint orange by the street lights. The feeling of my feet being warm extends its existence and joins the image. Every form of being alive is condensed into a picture. I see my eyes wide open—an unexpected lack of sleep for which I have no explanation. 

I do not remember falling asleep once again. The train woke me up, the train sang me to a forgetful sleep. 

Winter at Home

The sunlight calls my mother, who calls me outside to the balcony. The day is the 4th of January, and the clock reads 12:30 pm. Sometimes my mother directs me to wobble into the bedroom and wobble back out with two chairs we could sit on. Sometimes we spread a blanket on the balcony floor and sit next to each other, basking in the sun.

No words are spoken. Our mere presence around each other prevents darkness from knocking on the door. We kneel with content in front of the shining sun. Occasionally, our hands pick up some roasted groundnuts (moongfali) and the sweet addiction of cracking them and eating the peanuts envelops us. Slowly, as the sunlight my mother so adores shifts and dances, the sounds from the park four floors below waft upstairs.

Old women sing bhajans, devotional songs which enamour both devotees and non-devotees with the love coursing through them. A little child sits next to his dadi on this nice Saturday afternoon away from school, collecting memories, learning the ways of the universe. More grandchildren play in the vicinity, and keep playing until the end of the world. A cricket game never ends, come darkness or rainfall.

My mother always likes to point out the chirping in the park during the holidays. The whole community gathering outside, brought together by the sun, is reassuring and invigorating. Who cares about the winter when you can bundle up in sweaters and shawls and jackets and ten layers of socks, when you have your relatives and friends around you? 

As soon as school begins, silence settles on the whole place. The swings swing by themselves, empty and rusty. I leave home, once again, only to find it impossible to say goodbye.