It used to be all crepuscule at night, all black.
Only the stars are there to convoy you.
Only the fireflies are there escort you.
During the rains, the lightnings will work as the beacon. Only the reflections of the very restrained lights from the stars on the wet leaves of the trees, the grasses are there to show you the narrow path.
The full moon nights were different. The magical and enchanting light of the moon filled the whole atmosphere with peace and seductive brightness. No artificial lights around. Only moon and stars are there with you.
The houses are quite far from one another. Only large paddy fields, ponds and scattered bushes between them. Frequently you face small rivulets flowing gently. There are narrow and slender muddy paths.
We didn’t had electricity there. The dim yellow hurrycane lights or candle lights were the only source of some visibility. They, however, seem to contribute in creating more of a gloomy atmosphere, rather than vividing it.
We used to go out for a stroll at night, with only stars to accompany us. With only the lights of fireflies guiding us. With only the sound of “ঝিঁঝিঁ পোকা” making the earth alive.
There I could espy my soul. I could recognize myself. I could conjoin with my existence.
Now I live in a colorful city, feast of lights, glutted with brightness, they say it is full of life also.
But, even if with this abundance of lights and this overwhelming glossiness, I find myself lost. I feel I cannot see anything. I think I cannot perceive myself.
I miss that darkness.
I miss that tranquility, that concord.
I miss that truce with nature.
I miss that silence, that serenity.
I miss that conformity with earth.
I miss myself.
Abnormal? Am I? May be.