This is the first article from the series of articles under the exclusive column Nocturnal Natters by Dr.Santosh Bakaya
They say owls are nocturnal creatures. But, I am robustly convinced that writers love the sounds of everything nocturnal- be it the cicadas, the crickets, the rustling of trees, doors stealthily creaking open, or the sudden hoots of owls demanding attention.
I speak from experience.
Many are the times I have stealthily crept out of bed to stand near the window to listen to the nocturnal sounds, trying to read the meaning in every sound. Is some burglar driving a chisel under a door to break it open? What is that sound? Is he grinning? Has he really managed to break open the door?
Writers have fertile imaginations [how can they write otherwise?] Mine has often gone berserk, alert to the minutest of sounds- a scraping, a crackling, a sniffling, a rustling, a twittering.
Often an idea has struck me with the strike of the midnight hour, soon followed by a cascade of ideas- – and what a full-fledged nocturnal assault it is- an idea from the right, an idea from the left, till I am swamped completely.
Sometimes my ears stand witness to a crime story extraordinaire taking birth within my perennially churning mind, sometimes a portrait of a criminal gets delineated, oft a whodunit, packed with edge-of-the-seat and nail-biting suspense, and spine–chilling thrills.
Just the other day I heard bells, and also Edgar Allen Poe, not whispering, but reciting his poem The Bells, with such a powerful eloquence, that I was totally bewitched. The clock hummed, so did the fridge, as it often does. But this time it seemed to have a touch of applause to it.
I have always loved onomatopoeic poems, and this is not the first time Poe appeared in my dream, not just reciting, but standing drenched in moonlight, a raven perched on his shoulder. He recited, serenading me, and I listened not unlike an infatuated teenager.
“Hear the sledges with the bells- Silver Bells!
What a world of merriment their melody foretells!
How they tinkle, tinkle, tinkle. In the icy air of night
Through the balmy air of night
How they ring out their delight!
From the molten golden notes,
what a liquid ditty floats… *
The ‘liquid ditty’ continued floating, and the bells of memory kept chiming long after Poe had beaten a hasty retreat, and the owl’s hoots had turned into nocturnal hectoring.
The cicadas had turned quiescent, but I could still hear sounds drifting across to me from the past.
Sounds emanating from the crumbling house that continued to beckon to me, from the banks of the River Jhelum.
The house that once was home to our giggles, grins, and guffaws.
Was it a raven sitting atop the lone pine in our garden?
A fistful of gold, actually a golden oriole, peeking from behind the verdant greenery of the willows?
As I drifted deeper into my thoughts, the night talked on, but I had ears only for those lost sounds. They continued their musicality deep into the night.
*The Bells, Edgar Allen Poe
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