The faraway sound of the muezzin’s call to the faithful to wake up and pray had just begun to cause gentle vibrations on my eardrums. For the first few moments, my mind refused to respond to the call, but my body did, slowly unfurling itself from the foetal position into which it had curled itself under the cover of the cotton wool quilt. I could feel my senses come alive and I was smiling to myself, wondering if a slice of bread being toasted over a fire could have felt warmer and more content.
Under the quilt, it was dark and mysterious like a cave. I slowly started removing the cover, and, for the first few moments, through the peepholes for my eyes, it seemed as if it was quite as pitch dark outside as it was under the quilt. I could smell the acrid smell of the coal-fired ovens of the pavement eatery being lit. When the night was younger, pavement dwellers were burning old tyres and egg crates to keep away mosquitoes and the cold. You know when your eyes start smarting and it feels like you are being slowly choked.
Gradually, the long grey rectangles of the two skylights above my bed started taking shape. But the red and green glasses that give these skylights that Mondrian look were all uniformly grey like the rest of the room etched out in various gradations of sable gone pallid. Those Chinese carpenters who must have made them were master craftsmen. Daybreak was at least two hours away, and although I had a deadline to meet, it was safe enough to surrender myself to slumber when all senses are numbed and your consciousness starts diving deeper down.
Warm embrace
A few months ago, when it was warmer, both the windows of my room would remain open, and the street lights would have lent a ghostly ashen pallor to the room, making the furniture stand out. On full moon nights, this cold disc of light would often peep through the leaves of the tree on the pavement, and rise higher thereafter, when its long silvery fingers would caress the red floor, creating puddles of spooky light. It was the kind of frosty luminescence favoured by fairies and the undead, and I wouldn’t have been surprised if they sailed into my room riding on the millions of motes dancing in the moonlight.
But now that the windows are shuttered, my high-ceilinged room is permeated by a powdery greyness that could have emerged from the imagination of a pointillist painter. Suddenly the room becomes a deeper shade of grey. The street lamps have been switched off. When I woke up with a start, the alarm clock said it was 9 am already and it is a bright and sunny day. But if we keep the French windows of the verandah open, an icy breeze would charge into the living room.
The clear, intense sunlight beats down on the glazed French windows like a stray cat begging to be allowed inside the house. The dancing leaves of the tree create panels of open-work embroidery on the frosted panes of glass. When darkness is driven away by the street lamps, the leaves remain equally playful. The warm golden rectangle in the middle of our first-floor courtyard keeps shifting as the day lengthens. When one steps into it, one can feel the warmth seeping into the pores of one’s epidermis.
On cloudy days, the light becomes dull, leaden and heavy, weighing all of us down. At night, dark red clouds invade the sky and ominous fingers of lightning streak the heavens as if battle lines have been drawn. If so much as a solitary rain droplet seeps down your neck, you can feel your limbs numbing. The icy (feels like it) wind doesn’t quicken your senses. In a split second you can feel the welcoming embrace of hypothermia. But usually after a troubled night, the sun has chased away the clouds. And the glowing houses purr in delight.
