My nights
This is not a sequel to 1001 Arabian Nights. Nor about my night lives. It means simply what it says, the nights of an octogenarian. Our dinner is around 7.30 p.m. My wife goes to bed at 8.45 p.m. and I watch TV or stroll for some time and lie down at 9.30 p.m. I sleep near the window in the hall, on a palank, with all the windows open, even in December and January. I feel claustrophobic in the room.
Yesterday I woke up at 1.30 a.m. I sat up in my bed and looked out. The silence outside was total. Not a leaf stirred. I was immersed in the vast ocean of stillness. I embraced it; I allowed it to pervade me, permeate me, envelope me, inside out. It was a magical moment, a moment of subdued exhilaration and contentment. It reminded me of the words of Rumi: “Listen to the silence. It has so much to say.” But this thought itself was a disturbance and a distraction. Silence is not external; it is the inner silence that....
