1. WINTER ON A MOUNTAIN
Patches of stark white shine beneath a sizzling sun. A green field coated with morning dew is slowly being conquered by these little snow masses. Winter’s first call takes a fine toll on the weather. Chilly breezes whoosh by, a sound of an audience jeering and whooping. Farmers take heed of the cold warning, and head into the lush valley below in various groups. Eventually, silence is the only entity that crowds the beautiful mountain peaks. An eerie tranquility settles slowly upon them along with moist clouds which block the final rays of the sun from seeping in. A path of freezing rainwater glides down rocks on one side of the mountain. Even the mud surrenders as it is washed out with the force of the cold and confident stream. When this water path reaches the edge of the mountain cliff, it changes its route and recedes into a road drain with a mournful tread. A couple of bronze leaves lie in the soft, powdery snow strewn all over the ground. These dead plants crunch as black and brown boots embed them into the sand as people walk by. The colours seem to brighten on the chilly mountain as birds twitter excitedly and lilac winter pansies bloom.
2. THE SILENT NIGHT GUARD
I glide along the dusty path. With every step I take, the amber lights to my sides flick off, like fireflies going off to sleep one by
one. The moon looks pale and alone in the sky, a silver orb entrapped in a canvas of mournful colours like navy blue and grey, dotted with speckles of white. Along with the sound of soft crunchy footsteps, I hear a child giggling happily with his mother in the playground. She’s shushing him half-heartedly, her own voice muffled with quiet bouts of laughter. I drift forward, feeling my quiet spell of silence enchant the world to sleep, but somehow these people are immune to it. I almost approach the two to warn them about the dangers of the night, but the pure joy on their faces halts me and I relent, forming a cozy envelope of darkness around them instead. A breeze lifts the grass and gently pushes a few leaves onto the moist sand of the narrow sidewalks. The wind and my darkness combine to create a low whooshing noise resembling the sound of an audience clapping and hooting after a great performance. The slides and swings and seesaws are dull colors in the playground that seem to shine in my dimness. The child plays in the shallow sand pit now, and the mother sits beside him, handing him toys and looking around worriedly, having realised the time. I am disappointed when they leave; having company tonight was unusually pleasant after almost an eternity of nights spent in solitude.
As I blanket the colourful playground with my darkness, I imagine the taste of moisture and timber on an unreal tongue. Wafting through the field, I try to feel the touch of laughing children through the little patches of mud staining the slide to no avail. As I stretch my darkness into the tiniest corners of the world, my pale moon father watches over me and my hearty mother readies herself for her next bright visit. Meanwhile, I continue to drift through the misty gloom.
3. THE RAINFOREST
Rain tumbles down like anguished tears spilling from the sky. Flurries of cloudburst find their way through the protective cover of trees that shield the rainforest. The pitter patter of rain is harsh enough to keep all animals hiding today. It also drives away any fresh fragments of pinewood and timber, leaving only a moist, monsoon stench. The air now tastes foul with mud and soil, speckles of dirt taunting the lake by making their way through former clean waters. It is suddenly quiet. The rain softens to a drizzle. Feathers cease fluttering; glow-worms stop glistening in the mute dimness. Even the constant hum of winged vermin quiets. They hear crunches of footsteps getting louder as uninvited humans prowl through the rainforest. Streams of water flow down a rocky lane of stones and moss and eventually glide smoothly into the lake. Any leftover birds and insects and monkeys depart into the denseness, and water darts down the leaves hurriedly to get out of our watchful eyes.
4. THE BEGGAR
The beggar usually sat in the corner in front of a bustling grocery shop—he received the most money there from sympathetic customers. He usually wore a worn-out, grey shawl draped around his shoulders. Its soft woollen material suited its purpose on crisp mornings and breezy nights, just another one of his cherished stolen goods that he hid behind his frayed carpet bed. That day, he was grateful for the shelter that the overhanging building offered, his hand concealing his eyes from the blaring rays of the angry sun. The thin covering of clouds in the sky was useless, and if they were people, the beggar would throw rocks at them for doing such a terrible job of protecting him. Much like the government, the beggar thought. How I wish I could pelt those corrupt fellows with pebbles after how they ruined my life. The beggar’s practiced weary eyes pleaded with those of others for most of the day, hoping for a few kind pedestrians. However, they mostly ignored him, hurrying their pace or looking away from his position on the ground. He was used to them all, all the disgusted looks thrown his way, and sometimes dreamt of the day when he might also sweep his eyes over his kind—poor fools and lowly thieves— and walk on, leaving them all to their misery and suffering. By now there was no hope left in him for a brighter day of a happier life, and his only ambition now was to get grains of food at least once a week. Sometimes he got lucky and a few notes were handed to him by a blessed man or some other kind soul. Sometimes, people dropped their wallets on the ground clumsily. Oh, those were the best days. During the slower times, he had to steal from cash machines up ahead, which he hated, but it had to be done. It was the best way to collect tons of money in one go, but he never stole more than what was needed for his survival.
The beggar lay there with his eyes closed for plenty futile minutes around noon. It was too hot for him to move. He’d long learned to stop counting seconds, but it felt like an injustice for him not to do so, as time floated away like smoke, elusive and hazy like lost memories. That day, the old beggar heard honeyed joy of passing children and felt the warmth of their vibrant
energies shift through him. The kind people, the soft nurturing souls that seemed so few these days—their beautiful aura seeped through his rough, scabby skin. Perhaps he only lived on these days to hear the lovely laughter of these kids. Perhaps this was the little meaning he had left in life. All he knew was that these moments were the ones that made him wake up each day, and made him smile inside. It made him feel young again, almost human-like. The beggar’s muddy hair fell across his head when he looked up to the wretched sky once more. His cracked lips were parched; it had been long since his last sip of water, but the beggar managed to pull his shawl up onto his chest before falling into a silent sleep for the rest of the day.