The world betwixt the windows
Sleep is a privilege… not all can afford.
I had the proud privilege of being a night owl. But this pride is draining away, like fine sand of decay from the grasp of time in the hourglass. It was a little past 2 in the morning.
Reciting the book to myself, I decided to hack the slumber spell onto my racing mind. I wished to reign in the dynamic flow of thoughts that intruded on the spirit of sleep. Noises of dogs barking, and wedding processions of mosquitoes riled my headspace and hearing.
Retiring away from my bed, I hovered over to take a shower. This side of the city receives water all day long, the other parches and capitalises the scavenges of the community tap in the morning. As the cool stream shuddered down and drowned the stealthy perspiration off my back, I carelessly strung the towel about. Donning the decent apparel I bootstrapped the towel into, I went out.
All eyes had departed to shut and were now spectators to wondrous dreams, or horrible ones, or so it seemed. It was not necessary to drape the towel appropriately, but the cultural norm of decency like an invisible eye took a toll on me, as I lurked into the bedroom.
I quickly changed my clothes and did the most human thing - threw away the half-wet towel detachedly. The strings I held onto, to save my esteem, were now lying in a careless heap, devoid of any respect whatsoever. Then I opened the nearest window to hang the towel. Dead silence blew strong with the rainy winds, with the characteristic smell of earth, and started ringing in my ears. I looked ahead, and the silence raised like dust and a symphony played out, as a little red window glimmered in the breast of the deep-blue night sky.
The mere sight of it upsets me, and on this side of the town, all the windows are closed, and mellow night lamps illuminate the dreams of both the waking and asleep. On the other side, there are red lights like the candle of aspiration, muffled screams and stifled struggle, scattered about.
Most of us have surrendered to the boon of sleep, all rushing to get some rest, for the toiling day awaits, and yet some are deprived of this privilege of humane rest. The dint of that red light follows me, the harrowing distant sights refreshens at the sight of red. The base colour of passion and blood, at the traffic jam and stop, and the essence of the train whistling away. The mere sight of red terrifies me, and what curdles my blood is to imagine the tormented souls behind the alienated confines beyond the red little windows. And this divide lives on beyond my mind, you have known it as I do and chose to ignore it. You consciously avoid it, for the social notion of decency prohibits us from empathising with the alien other, the red-sketched parts of the town, where hatred, crime, poverty, unemployment and deprivation reign supreme.
And now I know that waking through the night is not a privilege but a necessity for the woman riding the night away bravely. She fights against the scriptures and enforcers to earn her bread, and she sells her body but not her esteem. And I am no longer ashamed of the invisible eye of decency, the one that could not provide justice, food or means of survival and human esteem to her and her children. I know now that I am not the only one who stays up at night. There’s me who is high on poetry and keeps forgetful to stay oblivious to her pain, the brave she, and a lustful beast. I am no longer blindfolded in my high castle to the world between the two windows and the divide within.
~Divyosmi Goswami
