The dark has its music

This piece of writing is not mine. I found it a long time ago in a website. I found the writing very haunting. Thats why I'm posting this here for you to enjoy. Kudos to the writer.

The dark has its music
Sayantan Dasgupta

The dark has wings.

The dark has its music.

The dark has its pain.

The dark has its own bright, flickering smells, its own phantom whims.

Its own haunting echoes, its own tortured, deep-sea sighs.

The dark has its own ghosts which haunt it from dusk to dawn and back to dusk again.

So I was told by an old man long ago.

That man has since been swallowed up by the dark. But I still remember the night he told me that if one really tried, one could actually hear the sound of the earth go round and round on its axis. It was difficult, but not impossible. It was easier during his times, he said, for there was less noise. But, if I listened, really really listened late on silent nights, I would be able to hear the sound, too. It would begin as the slightest hint of a muffled ghrrrrrr-ghrrr, and as you concentrated and shut out the rest of the world -- the faint strains of the All India Radio goodnight anthem from some distant shack, the happy cicadas, even the sound of your own breathing -- it would gradually build up to a crescendo until you would be scared that you might be thrown off the earth, it was moving so violently.

"It’s just like the sound of a gorur gaari. But you’re a city boy; you wouldn’t know what that sound is like", he said with a short laugh.

That summer holiday, I did discover what that sound was like. As I lay on the bench in the garden and looked up at the onyx sky, the dark came and held my hand; it became my friend. And I heard the earth moving on its rusty wheels....

It’s been a long time since then, and I have stopped listening for that sound. But there are other songs, other smells and other secrets the dark whispers to me today.

When there’s a power cut in your neighbourhood next time, don’t grumble. Don’t even fumble about for the candles. Wander on to the tiny verandah of your first floor flat. Peer into the dark. The festive song of the jheejhi will be punctuated by an occasional flutter somewhere in the kadam tree as Mama Crow tries to convince Baby Crow that the gooey monsters were just part of its nightmare.

There’ll be a flicker somewhere ahead of you; it’ll vanish before you can recognise it. It’ll slip away like memories of a long-lost love. You’ll only feel the warmth of a glowing cigarette stub as it swings and sways its way into oblivion. And then, even that will disappear, leaving a widowed, bald darkness.

You’ll think you hear the creak of a bedspring somewhere above you, and you’ll hear something landing with a soft thud into the unkempt bushes below you. And you’ll swear you hear a creaky groan as the whitewashed walls ooze fatigue and the tired building settles ever so slightly deeper into the sheltering earth.

The cool breeze will bring with it snatches of a few whispered words of love -- disjointed, disembodied like pieces of a jigsaw puzzle. Perhaps they were urgent words of love uttered on a ramshackle bench in some dark corner of the park, perhaps they were lazy, caressing words of love, savouring a moment of togetherness that would not last, trying to make sure the moment would not be forgotten when the day dawned. Perhaps they were well-rehearsed words of love, uttered once more into the trusting dark. Or, perhaps, they weren’t words of love at all -- perhaps it was just the day’s last tramcar trundling by on its aluminium tracks somewhere in the distance. You can’t be sure -- there are some secrets the dark won’t want to share with you...

A rude, loud voice will break into your reverie, showering abuse on a name too slurred to be identified. The acrid smell of betrayal will hang heavy in the air. The wounded, shredded dark, split wide open, will cry for justice. The sobs will die down only when the frogs comfort the dark with their unstinting, ancient lullaby.

Just about now, you may hear a sweet voice half-way through "Ogo dukhojaganiya ... tomay gaan shonabo...tai to aamay jagiye rakho..." She’ll fumble over a word here, drift out of tune there, but she’ll go ahead, singing just for the pleasure of singing to the dark, crooning for the pleasure of serenading the dark, without worrying about who’s listening and what mistakes she’s making.

There are more secrets the dark has to share with you. More than you can imagine. Many more than I can tell you about. Go ahead and give it a listen. You won’t regret it!