Moonlight Sonata

•3 - Dark•

Dark: with little or no light.

•She•

There were mango trees here. And water apples. And jackfruits. All in one place. In between those, were flowers - lilies and roses and daffodils and all those I liked to call 'poetic entities'.

Occasionally, certain days would bring warm nights. I'd generally distinguish between the two times with reference to temperature, but on these days, the temperatures would reverse. He said it was due to some geographical reason, but I was sure it was because souls from the graves  around us had emerged and were calling us out to play.

On these nights, I'd lie in bed beside Him for some time, and in my mind, visit the mangoes and water apples and jackfruits around. I'd try to take Him along, but He never came, so I strolled down the pebbles alone and spoke to the fruits. He had described them to me, their shapes and sizes and tastes, but during these solitary strolls, I saw them all as one.

He said these fruits looked over us, they passed on everything they heard to the flowers, who then passed them on to the bees. And the bees then whispered them to the crows. And here He stopped. Because He knew not what happened next. He couldn't hear what the crows said.

But I could.

He said the crows were black, like my vision. When I'd sit down at the edge of the forest, one or two would perch on my shoulders. I knew not what they sang, but to me it was all sweet. They'd sing to me what they learned from the bees, and sometimes, the souls from the graves would join along. With them, I felt strangely at home, because they somehow resonated what was inside of me: an ever-widening hole of blackness, with no beginning and no end.

If the instrument that made beautiful music was His piano, then this was mine.

"How come I can hear you?" I'd ask them more than once. "Is it because I'm actually dead?"

The crows would stop singing, one or two would even fly away. Then a third, still perched on my head, would whisper ever so slightly: "it's all about what you think, do you think rotting beings can sing?"

"I can't be dead," I'd say. "My heart is so full of joy."

A soul from the grave would speak in reply: "but we're happy too."

Before I could say anything more, they'd go back to their respective graves. I'd be left all alone, in an emptiness I had learnt to call home. Eventually, I'd return to the bed beside Him, and find His hand tightly around mine. It was how we'd gone to sleep, and we'd remained like that all this while. He would open His eyes slowly, as if acknowledging my return. How did I know he did that? Well I saw it, of course.

There were some things I could see, without seeing them at all. He never understood how, but neither did I.

I'd smile at Him then, and feel His breath on my nose. It smelled sweet, like the honey-stained bees, and I'd tell Him as much. He'd get off the bed at that, and I'd remain where I was, trying to memorize how it felt to lose His gentle touch.

A few minutes of silence, and after that the rainbow would evolve. I'd sit up in excitement as realization dawned. "I can see, I can see!" I'd cry.

And the rainbow would grow brighter at that, the music drowning out all other sounds. Through the window nearby, I'd see a soul in the woods, looking in on us. I'd wink at it, and it would dissipate like steam. I'd turn away with a knowing smile.

Sometimes, I tried to see Him, too, sitting somewhere beyond the rainbow; surrounded by it, yet not a splash of colour on his arms. But He was the one person I could never see. It drove me crazy, but I maybe it was good this way. What if I didn't like what I saw?

"How do you know," He'd ask sometimes, "that my vision corresponds with yours? How do you trust my descriptions, when there is no way to confirm?"

"Confirmation I don't seek," I'd say. "I see what you see, sure, but my vision isn't confined to that. I can hear the crows, you can't. For me, darkness is the closest friend. I want to see one day, of course, all those things from your end. But until then, how do I know that the flowers talk? Plants don't have mouths, that's what you have taught. How do I know that the fruits listen? Trees don't have ears, you say. There are some things I know for myself, though most I know from you. And yet, whatever you know, or I, where is the confirmation of that?"

And that'd shut Him up.

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