A chronicle of the misadventures of a would be writer

Thursday, March 4, 2010

The Wait

It’s a velvet black sky and a few scattered stars can be seen shining half heartedly. The moon has already left dejected and the sun is still too sleepy to come out. The night is quite silent, with the exception of the occasional insomniac peacock calling out, while the call of the crickets forms an all enveloping, deafening white noise.
The night is absolutely still. The massive, majestic trees, bent under the long years of sorrows they have witnessed, stand still holding their breath waiting. There is no breeze to come tickle them into light laughter, to momentarily ease their pain. There is no wind to shake them out of their mourning. Foreboding has poured out its dreadful draught, its nameless fear paralysing all under the dark celestial marquee. Nothing moves.
Not even her, at least not at the first glance. The slow heaving of her breast, as she breathes in the dismal air laced with the intoxicating scent of frangipani, is the only movement giving away the fact that she is not a sculptor’s tribute to his muse. She is sitting on a stone near the most wizened tree. Her legs are stretched in front of her, her soft palms lightly placed on her knees. Her long, black hair hanging loosely cloaks her from the night. Her bare ankles are embraced by anklets which could stir up a symphony to shatter all silence if only she willed them to it. The only other threat to the night is her eyes. Those dark, round eyes are lit by a turmoil which if let loose could annihilate the night itself. Yet she chooses to be a part of this alabaster night, instead of disrupting it with any signs of life.
Those large, round eyes are filled with longing, despair, anger and wistful memories of a content past. What are not there are tears, marking the lamentation of present. Tonight, a night so bleak that the nightingale cannot bring itself to sing will be the night of her deliverance. And so she patiently waits, still as the night that surrounds her.
Slowly time drags itself and the sun grudgingly opens its eyes, just a little. Restless young birds bicker among themselves for the first claim on the worm. The cacophony of their arguments wakes up the breeze that had forgotten to blow last night. As it passes the wizened, old tree, the tree seeks a favour. One soft young leaf is gently blown and placed at her feet. She gets up from her seat, picks up the tree’s gesture of solidarity and walks back home. Her husband will wake up anytime soon.

No comments:

Post a Comment