It was a chilling late evening of Thursday.
Sitting on the roof-top of a restaurant,
I was listening to the drip-drop-drip-drop falling of
dense mist on the tree-leaves and on the
water-hyacinths in the nearby pond.
The grey wall of fog
was getting heavy enough to
see my own shadow on it as
a thin streak of light was coming from opposite direction.
I relished the still, silent cold and spoiled
myself with the languorous moisture of mist.
It was pin-drop silence all around. For a minute,
I looked through glass that separated
the roof-top from the rest of the restaurant.
Inside, it was cozy and warm.
People were chatting especially
the couples were closing in on each other for a sense of comfort.
Almost DNA-structure like fumes
were rising from the soup-bowls and coffee-pots.
I was all by myself on roof-top estranged from this coziness.
There must be some music going on inside,
to which I was deaf because of
the heavy bullet-proof glass
that acted like a shield between my loneliness and
that lavish happiness.
But I was happy too.
I had my own world made up of this dark cold night,
the very sound of silence,
the depleting fog and the glimpses of the moments
I left behind.
I prayed...I wept.....I smiled.
I recalled William Blake.
I felt like the God and cried out loud-
"Did he smile his work to see? Did He who made the Lamb make thee?"

BDST: 1952 HRS, JAN 23, 2016
RR