Dark Patch

It's close to 4 a.m., and I am awake, wondering about all my life. The full moon brightens the sky above, and city lights brighten the horizon below. In between, there is a dark patch waiting for the dawn. I feel him.

There is an ambulance passing by, or a police car—I'm not sure. Other vehicles too. Some of my neighbours are watching a film whose voice can be heard. Some bats interrupt with abrupt sounds. A fan is swinging above, and a few mosquitoes are annoying me.

Amid all this, my eyes stir at the play of light and dark, and thoughts bend towards the dark patch. Why? Why do I notice this patch among all the chaos?

There may be millions of stars in that patch, but invisible for now—hidden by the musings of proximity. If you pick any one star in all of these and just look at it, set your gaze on it, you may find it speaking—whispering, but speaking.

Its words come from a million miles away, distorted by the folds in between. They are like cosmic rivers—floating, bending, twisting, turning—but reaching somehow to me. My thoughts, soon enough, become part of the flow and start dancing with the waves. I often try to stop them, but in the end, I too am flowing with the cosmic river.

If there's a river, then where does it end? Where's the sea we are all forced to join? Does it have islands with clear, sunny skies, or is it a vast cosmos rising and falling with the storms?