Just one of those usual, stimulating nights, where you have nothing but to ponder upon something absolutely absurd or revolutionary. And that, of course, has to happen over a gorgeous glass of wine, a tough glass of whiskey or a nippy beer, a given, for being a different cut. Often times, we scrutinise the very conventional subjects of politics, religion, long lost lovers, quantum physics if you’re phony, and the rest of the times you just wail your way to sleep.
So far, so good? Great! Now, let’s talk about something not so conventional, post-drinking. The unheard whispers of the magic potion in that glass; the listless pieces of advice from the red in the wine, to the red on my lips.
It was the 18th night of the month of October, ’16. Exactly a year ago I was down with a dilapidating illness, and now there were almost no signs of it. It was bored, as all i could do was sleep, eat donuts, and sleep, and more sleep; it left. I was sitting on the settee in my verandah, wearing a maroon cotton dress, leaning against the wall, as my legs hung themselves from it like the fallen trees on a highway on a rainy day; tired. I was trying to form my rendition of Salman Rushdie’s Joseph Anton, my pick that month. Joseph Anton, a thousand mosquitoes, and I were the sole witnesses of the moonlight bouncing off the glossy pages of that thick, purple book, as it flipped pages by itself, loving the help it got from the Good Samaritan above us; the fan.
Twenty minutes into the lull, and I hear Mr. Brar, my neighbor from the floor above, playing The Power Of Love by Air Supply. He and I both went, “The whispers in the morning, of lovers sleeping tight…“, as loud as we could before we heard each other being loud rascals in the night. I sure had a laugh thinking how he must’ve gotten happy hearing me. Classic, old Mr. Brar. A typical night. It was then that I heard it; one red to another.
I used to find myself tied to a feeling of confusion and awe, in the nights. The days were usually the same; peachy. You wake up, you seize the day, and thus followed the night. The nights came to avenge you, to seize you, to tell you if you were worth your salt. The funny part was, and still is, most of us do cutting-edge work in the day, only to feel lost and lonely in the night. “Only the broken can feel the nights for real”, the popular illogical belief. I believed that the shades of grey, silently melting into the abysmal black made it intriguing. Like a black diamond charmingly peeping through fair, long fingers.
It was this very night when it swung at me; all that nights do is give you intensity. No matter what the thought, feeling, belief, emotion, act, the nights let you consummate it. We always keep our worries and foes for this stretch of the 24 hours of any given day; the last few hours. Why you ask me? Because this is when we feel the closest to ourselves. It’s the only time we get to spend time with our own body, our mind, our hands; judgement-free, at home, in bed, or a favourite chair, or a rag, or a corner where you can just stand and groove to the radio.
We’ve made the night what it stands for. We’ve burdened it with our secrets and cries. We hide in the dark, instead of finding solace in it, we look too hard trying to find the dark in the dark. If you try just hard enough, close your eyes and see the night for the pure beauty that it is, it won’t haunt you anymore.
It’ll be waiting for you, every day, to hear you whine about your ex, your boss, your wife, your boyfriend, your overprotective mother; all your problems. The nights will always, always be there to help you find the way for the day, help you enjoy that beer better, chill with your family longer, and love yourself harder. If only you let her see the good in you, that is all she’ll ever be. Darling night.