At night I love to write. Write about you, write of love, write of the night's pangs, an eternal tryst.

Night sometimes bothers me, something ending, something hushed. Night is an eternal what for me, or why. It is history, or geography or even polity. Night is eternity. It is hellish and those dreams, they haunt me those 'nightscapes', in Shillong's summer or winter, rain or drought. They enliven past, even future. The night is a road, half empty, vessels clatter, the cars mutter in oblivion.

A drunk ululates and curses the world. The night is a horse, I ride on it and its incessant neighing. A whiplash, the night strides in monosyllabic utterances. I turn to the other side to garner sleep, and some love.

Everything happens at night. Nothing, because night is night. It is half dead, but never dies. It is geography, look at the moon its crescent and its wan smile. It is timid. Night happens, asks questions and trees are lulled into sleep. All this happens at night. It is raining now, it is night.
 
Sleep will come when night sings a lullaby, a sad elegy on day's end. At night if there is a book to read, it is the book of life. Night is chaotic, it is events in aftermath of day.

Banish this lugubrity of night, its strands of madness, its bare skin of love. I love to see it naked, I love to wallow in its past, childhood, fatherhood. And fantasy.

Night is nether world.

Let me sign off when night is in its infancy.