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Spiritual Cycle Trilogy 2: The Midnight Rain
My motorcycle was surrounded by sheer darkness and mist. The territory of inky clouds was expanding swiftly and the chilly turbulent winds were doing their best to devour every iota of heat from my body. My tough, insulated jacket, that had been my faithful companion for years, was no match for that arctic atmosphere. Roars of the enraged wind-god from the upper atmosphere strongly indicated the arrival of downpour. It was near mid-night and my motorcycle was creeping forward. At that pace I would have reached my destination in a century.
I realized that it had not been a good idea to travel to another city at night but it was too late now; I couldn’t turn back. I had covered too much distance. I was an employee at a travelling agency and I often had to make such trips at odd times but this trip was proving to be a hell of a lot different.
Within no time rain started and I had never seen such a fast rain in my life. It was as if God had opened a shower and turned the knob to full blast. And at that ungodly hour something happened to my motorcycle. After a few coughs, its engine went cold.
“Damn it!” I kicked in frustration. If I didn’t find any shelter soon, I was going to be dead meat; chilled dead meat!
Drenched with despair and rainwater, I looked for some means of unexpected help; and I found one. I spotted a dim light at some distance. Taking my beloved motorcycle with me, I practically ran towards the source of light.
As I came nearer, I saw that it was a bus stop. There was only one bench and it wasn’t empty: a girl, most probably in her mid-twenties, was occupying one of its sides. In a normal situation, I might have kept standing but in that stormy weather I decided to throw courtesy to the winds.
“If you don’t mind, can I share this bench?” I requested, followed by a chatter of my teeth, making my request a thousand times more pitiable.
She flashed a queer smile and replied, “Yes, it would be a pleasure. I was waiting for you.”
“Waiting for me?” I repeated her words as I sat on the opposite end. “I don’t even know you. And how did you know I was coming?”
“I wouldn’t say the same about you. The wind and the rain told me about your arrival,” she said and stretched her arm, bringing her hand into the realm of rain. The droplets struck her hand and she smiled and this time it produced a melancholic effect.
“It’s strange many people never understand the messages in the rain. So much power yet unnoticed. It’s a pity; it’s a pity,” her words were akin to a whisper.
I listened to her ambiguous words but said nothing. I observed her in more detail: she was clad in a black caftan, which certainly couldn’t have provided a bit of protection from the cold but the glacial winds didn’t seem to bother her. Her head was covered with an embroidered scarf but a few strands of her hair, which were peeping out, were of reddish-brown tint. And her eyes were blue, blue like the sea. And her lips were pink, without the cover of lipstick.
Suddenly I felt as if the cerebro-spinal fluid in my brain was replaced by a curiosity-fluid.
“Ah, who are you and what are you doing here at this time of night?” I somehow found the courage to ask her.
She laughed lightly; it was like someone had struck the strings of a musical instrument.
“Who am I? Now how should I answer this question! If you are asking about my name, well, I had one but it was such a long time ago. I have forgotten it.” She smiled and paused for a moment.
“As far as your second question is concerned, I have already told you that I’m here to meet you.” I felt her penetrating gaze focus on me.
“Sorry, I don’t understand. You talk in such a complex way,” the last words sounded like a protest. She again emanated a melodious laughter.
“I should have known,” her tone indicated as if I had some problem and she understood it.
“Known what?”
“Known that your mind cannot comprehend such things,” she touched her own head with her finger and this time I laughed.
Although her identity was still hidden in clouds of mystery, I decided to carry the conversation on.
“So why do you want to meet me?”
“Frankly speaking, I am unaware of the specific purpose myself but I think I have to assign you some kind of a job.”
“And what is that job?”
“That I am not supposed to tell,” again that strange smile crept on her lips.
After a brief pause I again initiated the talk.
“Would you mind if I ask you your age?”
Her laughter made my heart vibrate with an odd shade of happiness.
“Your concept of age mostly revolves around the physical aspect but age is more than that. The age of your mind or the age of your soul is different from the age of your body. You may be surprised to know that I am a lot older than I seem to be.”
“You are no ordinary human, are you?” I asked in a serious tone and perhaps it was this tone which compelled her to give a straight-forward answer.
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Awais Aftab
Writing has been a passion, a love ever since I learned to write. For me, writing is a means of expression of 'secret tears and secret pleasures'. True writing comes from the heart and often it is the one to find you, not you the one to find it. Writing gives me power, the strength to carry on, the will to live and to live in a better way. It helps me find deeper meaning in the world around me and to understand myself much better. I can't survive without writing. For me, my writings are the whispers of life, in which the glory and sorrow of life echoes. For me, these are the glittering tears, whose every flash encompasses a thousand aspects of life. I believe that, 'I write; therefore I am.' However, true ease in writing comes from art, and I still have to learn a lot about that.
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