The eternal dance of light and darkness

The breeze could not enter my room. How could it, when it was closed to the outer world? I don't know how long I've remained indoors. It's been quite sometime now.

My room has a large window facing East. Peeping through it, I could've seen the mud-road that leads to the river bank. By straining my neck a bit to the right, I could've had a glimpse of the temple tower over which pigeons perch. Looking up, I could've also seen the dancing branches of the old Banyan tree that witnesses the entire process of my being.

"Are they still there?" I ask myself. Sitting in the darkness of my dingy room, I can often hear children's laughter, a mother's lullaby, the pitter patter of rain drops, the clang of the temple bell, the sweep of the wind and rustling sound of dry leaves and the entreaty of beggars. Should I open the window? Should I let in the breeze, and allow the light and air to pour into my room? These questions might appear ridiculous. Nevertheless, they're important considering the circumstances which compelled me to slam the door behind me. For, when it comes to light and darkness, I've always favoured the latter.

Darkness is heavy like a blanket. And it's ugly. It's frightening, too. It makes me droopy and sleepy. All the colours, all the movements, in fact, everything that represents life, stems out of light, my friends would argue. "Would light be so bright in the absence of darkness? It's in its lap we sleep and dream. It's from its lap we again wake up afresh; to realise all those dreams which we've been nurturing. Then, how can you call it ugly and frightening?

The debate went on. I stuck to darkness. They, to light. At one point, they asked me, "If you detest light so much, would you blank it out from your life completely by staying behind closed doors?" My instincts took up the challenge. But, with the passage of time, I thought I would soon succumb to the temptations that came from the world of light.

I remove the mirror from the wall. Lips dry, skin supple, eyes lacklustre, cheeks sagging, teeth yellowish, tongue heavy, nails brittle, joints creaky, I must appear pale and sick, though in the darkness, I could not see my reflection. "Are they right? Is darkness death? Is light alone life and beautiful?" I ask myself.

The Sun might have receded in the distant horizon; beyond all the oceans and mountains. Or who knows, it might have dawned, too, from the abysmal bottom of its cavern. For, my time no longer was 'relatable' to the time of the world of light. As thoughts got unleashed like drunken horses, somewhere in between, intoxication put me to sleep. It was then I saw the real colour of death. No, it wasn't dark. It was just colourless. It all happened when, after a bitter stand-off, light and darkness decided to recede into their respective regions to make their absence conspicuous. Or, at least, I thought so. The result was comic. For, as the fading light unveiled a blanket darkness, the darkness that dissipated brought in fresh beams of light.

I awoke startled. But, by then, I knew I had lost the debate. So had my friends. "Was it a dream?" I asked myself. "How does it matter?" the answer, too, sprang from within. For, now I know it's light and darkness which make the canvas of life. Death occurs when both are not — in a colourless state. With this realisation, as I open the window in a hurry, the soft rays of the rising sun begin to gently wash over my dark room.

By:T S SREENIVASA RAGHAVAN

Courtesy:The Speaking Tree(TOI)