Post 1 AM Kind

The night was playing.

It’s past 1 AM. It’s a weekend.

The first ticks of Saturday had begun.

A week has just passed.

Several other such weeks had similarly passed.

What remained the most awaited hours of the week? These few silent hours of the kind nights,

if only one is not tired enough to actually meet them.

But today, I had met them.

The hours were before me. I had an unfinished book in my hand. I had been reading it ever since I had gulped the dinner down my throat.

First, I hid beneath one of the staircases of the building and quietly went through twenty pages unblinkingly.

That was the first meet with the long-gone friend —

a self, this solitude around me,

this beautiful book in my hand,

and this quiet night..

The air had been calmer when I restarted again.

The city is fast asleep.

Yeah. What the hell with this city.

How the hell I ended up here.

These questions are so naughty.

One rarely finds oneself

observing the breath entering and leaving the lungs.

Like many Indian cities,

the afternoon honking is usually replaced

by the barks of desi homeless street dogs.

Why on earth do they take the responsibility of Batman,

I understand even less.

The motor of the ceiling fan was shoving a greasing sound.

The night continued…

What is it?

I devoured another ten pages, word by word,

hitting me in contrast,

absorbing into the soul.

Soon there was a nostalgic urge to have a cup of tea,

and who knew that this would open up a series of nights..

Nights are the kindest creatures on earth.

It’s a blessing at my coordinates

that half of the 24 hours is kissed every day

by some form of cold darkness.

It is even more interesting to realize

that somehow my Indians tend to wrap themselves

inside the safety of their houses, fast asleep… heh.