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.
No comments:
Post a Comment