Victims of the Night
Yesterday, I drew myself from the noisome throngs and proceeded into the field until I reached a place upon which a stone lay facing the setting sun. Before I could take the seat offered to me by the generous nature, I looked back, and the city appeared with its magnificent mosques and stately residents and splendid shops. I commenced analyzing man’s mission. He cries when he is brought forth into this world because of the constant peace in the spiritual world which contradicts the struggles, sorrows and hardships in the other, of which, he lives in it as though eternity would find him there.
I then looked across the field to meet birds going home. The trees, kestrels and the air all in harmony. Extreme Eutopia. The place was as divine as it was exotic, as though it existed outside this turmoil world. At some point, I envied the kestrel’s life and thought to myself that even a widowed kestrel would go out at dawn and dusk was sure to meet it with contentment and satisfaction.
At last I sat down to bid the sun farewell. I looked towards the clouds mingled with the sun’s longest and most beautiful golden rays which took my gaze to a tree upon which a word was inscribed, ‘Batra’. I hope it meant ‘solace’. Here is where history is lived. Where the mind awakens. I felt the heartbeat of the place. Night fell and my sight was cloaked. If it was not for the snow, I could stay there and wait for death to meet me. What better place to die than in heaven? And I heard a voice within me saying, “There’s eternal life in heaven”.