The Night of Love

It looked black. It had always been black. Deep endless black. So black that it felt as if no other color existed. There was a thickness, a strange weight in the black, like a heavy burden being pressed upon something. The depth of black was so intense that, at some moment, one would feel dead. The reality merged with dreams, leaving no corner untouched with black.

It was strange how black and death were synonymous. Black meant the end, where all ceased to exist. Black meant life was left far behind. Black meant there wasn’t going to be another morning again. It was difficult to swallow such blackness with your eyes.

All he could see was such black. He had not seen any color ever, and ironically did not know what black actually looked like. But if you could get into his head and see through his eyes, you’d probably suffocate under the black. He was not sure how the rainbow looked. Nor did he know how red was the rose and how yellow were the tulips. He had no idea about the marvelous Eiffel, Sphinx and Taj. He had never seen the innumerable shimmering stars or the white blotch of the Moon in the night sky. Vast stretches of picturesque landscapes meant nothing to him. He had not seen beautiful women, handsome men, expensive cars and massive mansions. The exorbitant masterpieces of Van Gogh, Cezanne, Da Vinci or Picasso were as good as plain black walls to him. He had not seen Ram, Allah or Christ. He had not seen his parents.

He was not dead, but every bit alive. His body absorbed life every moment. He could smell every season in the air when it arrived. He knew how freshly baked cake smelled like. He could make out the scents of women and colognes of men. His feet knew the feeling of walking on dew strewn grass. His hands knew the touch of a newborn. He could make out the difference between the cold marble floor and the warm bed. He had a silent blank sleep on most nights, but sometimes he had dreams. Dreams full of sounds. His father shouting, his mother sobbing, some neighbor sniggering, the swing he could never ride, repeated sound of metal clanging against metal, and a lot of other noises.

He had felt the sharpness of the knife cut against his flesh and smoothness of molten chocolate sticking lazily to his fingers. He listened to the million sounds, the ones you’d easily miss. He relished the crunch of chips and the slurp of tea. He had not seen any birds but had heard every sound that they could make. The cackle and the caw, the chatter and the chirp, the flap and the flutter, the trill and the tweet…

He liked the smell of his little cottage. It had memories caught in its air. He loved the fragrance of wet Earth right after rain. The same raindrops pattered against the windowpane at nights, saying things only he could understand. The whistling wind bashed against his frame when he stood on his porch. He knew when breeze turned into wind and wind turned into gale. The murmurs of trees told him that something was coming. Even the lull before the storm had a sound only he could hear. The sound of thunder made him happy. There were other sounds that made him happy too, like the rusty gate of his cottage. It meant that he had a visitor.

She visited him every now and then. For him, she was the sound of laughter, the touch of care and the aroma of coffee. They sat on the carpet by the fireplace and relish hot steaming mocha in porcelain mugs. They told each other stories of places they had never visited and people they had never met. They played the symphonies of Mozart and Bach and Beethoven and danced slowly till late in the night. Their bare feet liked the soft furry rug. Sometimes they just held hands and sat in silence. Sometimes he’d just sit there and run his fingers through her hair. That texture reminded him of something sweet. He could do that for hours without saying a word. She would just lie there, silently letting his long fingers touch her hair. She made him feel comfortable. He though if beautiful could be a person, it would be her.

Though he had never known any colors, but she filled those unknown hues in his life. They had been together for quite some time now. Her presence was an essential part of his life. For her, he meant the world. He rebuked like a father, cared like a brother, listened like a friend, respected like a son, loved like a boyfriend and protected like a husband.  They never told what they felt for each other but words were superfluous when actions did the talking.

If anyone would have peeped through the window of the cottage, one would instantly believe they were in love. They seemed so similar. And they were.

After all, even she could see only black.