Life Noir

At the stroke of the midnight hour, as the world sleeps, and some parts of India awakens to night-life and freedom from traffic, I’m awake too. Awake and staring. Staring into the absurd.

It’s absurd how in some places, people are forced to go back home even before the stroke of the midnight hour. Driven out, analysed, fined and sent homewards. I thought ours was the kingdom of the Midnight’s Children. Well the children are home now, unsatisfied and thirsty. While they reach for their chalices of nectar and pots of liberation, I’m awake. Awake and sober. Sober yet drinking.

Tis now the very witching time of night,

When churchyards yawn and hell itself breathes out

Contagion to this world: now could I drink hot blood,

And do such bitter business as the day

Would quake to look on.

Yes, those were dark eventful times indeed. Now I drink hot coffee and do such mundane business as the day wouldn’t even care to look on. In the confines of my tower, staring into my bright shiny liquid crystal looking glass. Alone and yet in touch with the world. The looking glass is showing me images from the past. An island called Iwo Jima, where a great battle once took place. Where patriotic men were reduced to ants. What else does the looking glass show? Even the wisest cannot tell. For it shows many things: things that were, things that are and some things that have not come to pass. Apart from the great deal of things that never were, not are and shall never come to pass. And through all this I’m awake. Awake and listening. Listening to the voices within and without.

It is the hour of the wolf now, which according to Swedish legend is the time between the deepest night and dawn when wolves are heard howling outside. The hour when most people die, when sleep is the deepest, when nightmares are most real. It is the hour when the sleepless are haunted by their deepest fears and their most scathing regrets, and all they can hear is the sound of their own hearts. But this is India, there are no wolves howling outside the door. Just the myriad voices calling for prayer.

And then, while India turns to look at the brightest star in the heavens, I’m awake. Awake and yet asleep. Asleep, as through the window in the wall, comes streaming in on sunlight wings, a million bright ambassadors of morning. As the cogs of life start moving all around, I’m buried deeper and deeper into the dreamland of inaction. The dreamland where I made a tryst with destiny.