Solitude

I need my night walk. Especially in the monsoons. P. seems remarkably like the town I grew up in: the narrow lane is quiet, there is a barely perceptible murmur of traffic in the background, but there are no immediate intrusions on my solitude - people, cars stuffed with self importance, impudent scooters, not even the blare of the nightly soap opera. The road has just been wet by the last round of drizzling, the air has been swept clean by the drops, and there is just the hint of a breeze. The darkness is punctuated by the occasional street lamp, the dysfunctional ones add an element of mystery, of lurking danger to the tranquility. The road, intent on beautifying itself, somehow captures the evasive light and reflects it as one continuous smear. The trees extend upwards, across the two sides, branches mate as their sharp outlines are highlighted by the faint light. I look upwards at the thin, silver lines and catch the swoop of a bat right above. There is a dog sniffing at a discarded plastic bag, there is the occasional watchman faintly curious at the lone tramp. The music I've plugged in renders me deaf to the swish of the breeze, to the soft growl, to the tapping of shoes.. but the chords seem highlighted by the silence and the darkness and the absence of excuses. I'm completely immersed in the notes, in my thoughts, in myself: musing, drawing conclusions, smiling a bit. I don't know why I suddenly become so sensitive to this still beauty: the poets seem to need something more than this unassuming little scene to inspire them.. but of my own volition, I am held, captivated. And when I finally release myself, I am almost always smiling and at peace.