Isn't it the night to.....

 

Isn’t it the night to transform oneself, to change into wolves, or bats, or hyenas, or owls, or whatever nocturnal creature one wants to be?

 

Myra are you listening? Myra? You never answer do you? You would like me to find out for myself…

 

Well, it’s a full moon night. The garden is flooded with a clear, soft light. The trees in the distance are amassed in the moonlight, a gathering of shadows. The mountains placid and powerful are teeming with secret life…. But why am I telling you what you already know?

 

Come Myra, be a wolf with me tonight. Let’s leap out of this room, onto the grass and into the mountains, the cold night air in our fur, breathing deep the scents of the night, loping through the woods in search of prey. We could run too, just run. Have you seen how wolves run? I’ll run like a wolf tonight, bound, roll in the grass, sneak through trees,  streak through the clearings and lie down panting with exhaustion and happiness.

 

Ah Myra, the nurse will come tomorrow. She’ll help me have a bath, massage my legs, give me medicines and ask me the inevitable question,” Did you have a good night, Mr. Bose? What if I told her,” Last night I was a wolf. I ran in the mountains, I hunted and ate, I drank water from a stream. You can imagine her expression, can’t you? She’d immediately call the doctor, “Poor Mr. Bose is losing his mind. It’s no more safe to leave him alone at home.”

 

Nobody knows, nobody Myra, and you can’t ever tell anybody. You wouldn’t want to. You don’t care. But you have seen me during the last full moon , gliding out of the window, a white barn owl, screeching in delight. I first flew onto the big lime tree beside the river, trying out my wings. The leaves rustled in the breeze. Across the river, the mountains crouched beneath the sky. I set off ,  harnessing the wind, the wind my ally, buoying me up, parting to let me through.  Skimming gliding, silently, I lighted on the big oak in the middle of the forest. The white  eyed moon gazed down and I gazed back ruffling my feathers, waiting, till I heard a squeak. . Quickly I rotated my head around and before it could run into its hole. I was upon it, my claws gripping its body, my beak digging into its flesh. It was a feast. The next day I was so tired. The nurse was worried. She kept asking me if I had slept at night, if I was alright?

 

But Myra you didn’t tell me as yet? Will you come with me? No? Why? You don’t want to be a wolf. Come to think of it, neither do I. There’s too much flesh and blood. What should I be then? What did you say? I heard you whisper something. Can you say it gain?

 

Whisssper……………..

 

You whisper but say nothing. You sound the wind in the leaves, susurrating. You sound like the wind in the grass, murmuring. Ah Myra, Myra, let me think, let me try to understand what you’re saying.

 

Why do you whisper Myra?

Why do you?

What happens when we whisper Myra

What happens?

The breath rises, the breath escapes.

The breath rises, the breath escapes.

 

Oh how brilliant!! You want me to be the wind. That’s grandiose, stupendous, mind-boggling, so, so much more than I ever dared to imagine, to be. To be the wind sweeping through the grass. To be the wind keening in the mountains, making branches sway and creak and bend. The sirocco in the Sahara piling up the soft, slippery sand in undulating hills, mountains. The monsoon winds storming over the Arabian sea, making waves rise and dance with foaming crests, herding the dark, billowing rain clouds, blowing them to the shore to burst over parched earth and thirsting rivers. Ah Myra I’ve never felt such joy!

But I could be gentle too, a soft, soothing breeze , carrying the scent of flowers, creating ripples on ponds and lakes, breathing coolness onto the sweaty tiredness of men and women labouring in fields, building houses under the blazing sun.

 

Yes Myra, I’ll do it. I’ll feel my breath fill me up , my toes, my legs, my thighs, my stomach, my chest, my back, my throat, my face , my forehead my head….And then I’ll breathe out in the clear, moonlit sky.

 

“Mr. Bose. Mr. Bose.” It’s time to wake up. Come sit up. Would you like some tea? Mr Bose?”

 

Arunima