4.30 AM. The clock said. There was a strange feeling, as though I had never experienced a 4.30 AM before. I looked at the clock again. Then, at the darkness outside. I am lying. I could not see outside. The curtains were drawn. I assumed darkness. 4.30 AM must mean darkness. We can see darkness. Yet, we never notice light, real light.
4.30 AM. It was settling in – the moment, the ambience, the state of being. Does 4.30 AM suffer from pangs? Does it crave water or does it crave thirst? I fumbled looking for the glass of water on my bedside table. It has a telephone, a remote, a little box with cloves and cardamoms to chew on, a small packet of tissues and a glass of water. I knew something would fall and it did. I don’t know what it was, but it wasn’t water. Water does not fall down with a thud.
4.30 AM. I think it fell, the moment, the time, the way it was poised on the clock. Could I not look at it? I did not want to. It had registered so sharply that I was denying its departure. Dawn seemed to have appeared, the curtain changed colour, fresh morning sounds could be heard.
4.30 AM. I did not care that it left me. What leaves you goes; what you do not leave stays.