The Night

The night was asleep. The roads all seemed to whisper among themselves. A feeling of deep down conspiracy filled the void all around.
Often you have this uncanniness in a magic show or a political lecture. You can feel something behind the curtains but an attempt to
catch it threatens to subvert the existence. And hence this passive compromise between carrying on the journey and venomous but silent
waves.

The night was asleep. Street lights painted the roads in yellow solitude. But somebody was crying, rather weeping trying hard not to be heard.
Why do people cry even when they don't seek attention? What is the purpose of all these secret mourning? Why tears often find victims in
unlikely places? Why? And is it really someone weeping or my wandering mind playing tricks again? To love or to leave?

But someone really is crying. I think from the other side of the big market. The market, the exuberant painter of human lives at daytime, sleeping
like shadows of mountains over forests, caress of waves over stones. Yes other side of the market. A moan now, soft moan coming from there.
People live there. But are they really people? They are not like us. They are subhuman. Everybody says so. I never knew what makes one that way,
but people do say and believing them gives you peace.

But subhuman creatures do cry. Crying is something common between all creatures. It is laughing which is a human prerogative. So the subliminal
creatures are free to cry. The word "freedom" gives a shudder in the back. Like an unsatisfied apparition it haunts the mind. When the chain is of solid metal
it is easy to break free. But what if you can not see the chain or feel it? How do you know that you are chained or not? Again that uncanniness of sudden
realization paralyzes mind.

The grown-ups are wise. They seem to know all the answers. That tiny bit of smile hanging from the corners of their eyes say so. They know
everything. Perhaps wisdom accumulates with time and graying hairs. And surprisingly, their answers are short, really short, like "try not to think about
these" and "try to know why balloons float in the air, instead". The cruel torment of the soul is not a disease they are infected by, it seems. "Thinking
too much makes the thinking vague" is what they say.

Who is crying? The sound is distinct in this dry winter night. May be some foolish dream has broken somewhere, some inane expectation got trodden
by cruel life, cruel but wise and pragmatic. Life would have been much simpler without dreams and desires. Desire is the mother of despair and pain.
Why do we have to cry? Why? And there was the sound of music from some nearby house, may be television or a radio. The enthralling world of laughter
and the sharp mockery of the disdainful scream.

Yes, scream it is. Now it is more distinct than ever. Severing the stillness of the winter night, the cruel nonchalance of the nocturnal earth,it presented
itself. No pretense, nothing. Bare, naked existence of these subhuman species. suddenly streetlights went dark and hot tears wiped my face. A different sphere
of tangled emotion took me in. My shadows grew until the world became very small and the silent lament of the night audible.