Silence

More than anything else it’s the silence that scares me.

It’s not the silence of the hot sleepy afternoons of childhood when dust particles dancing in the sunlight filtering through the fan of air-cooler seemed magical.

It’s not the silence of crickets at grandpa’s house when we slept out in the open under a thousand stars on cots of jute and wood.

It’s the silence of crowds. Like the one you hear in the traffic or at train stations. It’s the silence deafened by loud music to which bodies dance in nightclubs with neon lights.

It's the silence of music. And that of books.

In my dream I am swimming under water. I see a wriggly soft white sun and a mass of faceless people. If I can get my ears over the surface, I would hear them. But I can’t. And I don’t know how to.