The dogs were at it again, trying to out-bark each other, and time and again, a lapwing screeched and an owl hooted.
The nocturnal orchestra was on!
Some neighborhood men were talking in loud voices. Maybe, they were returning from a party, and were now discussing it threadbare- which person was at his best behavior, and who was at his worst; who was wearing what, and who was over-dressed, which dishes were sumptuous and which insipid.
Their loud guffaws pierced the night.
The men were brazenly raucous, not bothered about the ones trying to sleep.
Now came another group.
I realized, the marriage season had started. Along with the birds’ muted nocturnal orchestra, the cacophony of the marriage bands was also in full swing.
How can anyone sleep when such noises hammer away on one’s head, and callous the eardrums? It was beyond me.
But I have always prided myself on my knack of switching off my mind to the present intrusive noises and catapulting it to some positive images of the past and falling asleep snuggling close to them.
This is precisely what I was about to do when I heard a yell.
I raced to the window and stopped in my tracks.
A giant dog, which I knew was called Wizard, had attacked one of the merry men and appeared to be bent on tearing him to pieces.
“Stop it, will you ?” It was a man in his nightgown, holding on to a leash from which Wizard had broken free. On hearing his master’s voice, the dog stopped midway in the assault, cringed and quietly headed towards a corner of the road, and lay down with the most innocent air about him.
An altercation started between the man who was attacked and the one with the leash.
“I don’t know what came over him “. The owner said, profusely apologetic.
“Can’t you even discipline your pets? He was all bent on unleashing his canine wizardry on me.” He was growling and touching his neck repeatedly.
The sounds of belligerence continued ringing in the air, but I walked away from that window and opened another window.
Many a time, I have written poems and memoirs about my father silhouetted against the window facing the Jhelum in our ancestral home in Srinagar, which my parents had lovingly renovated and called, ‘The Relic’.
With my mind’s eye, I often see him sitting at his study table churning out poem after poem, both in English and Urdu, and adding chapters to the novel, which he never could complete or get published- being suddenly snatched from our midst.
So, now I tried to plug my ears against the raucous sounds and opened them to the mellifluous notes of a Kashmiri song that my father was very fond of singing.
I saw him standing near the window, twirling his pen, as the notes of the song reached me, from across the mists of time, ‘az roz saane, dilbar myaney'[ Stay the night, my beloved.] I recalled my father telling me that the lyrics of the song were by the famous poet from Kashmir, Mehjoor.
The nocturnal cacophony was soon buried under the mellifluous notes of that song, and I soon drifted into sleep, as the trees outside rustled softly.
So, now I tried to plug my ears against the raucous sounds and opened them to the mellifluous notes of a Kashmiri song that my father was very fond of singing.
I saw him standing near the window, twirling his pen, as the notes of the song reached me, from across the mists of time, ‘az roz saane, dilbar myaney'[ Stay the night, my beloved.] I recalled my father telling me that the lyrics of the song were by the famous poet from Kashmir, Mehjoor.
The nocturnal cacophony was soon buried under the mellifluous notes of that song, and I soon drifted into sleep, as the trees outside rustled softly.
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