Afterwards (A sequel)

It is night, and the darkness is alive; alive with the million myriad sounds that are sewn into its ebony mantle, alive with the soughing shadows that forever stay out of sight. The blackness beckons to me with its siren song, seductive and beguiling, irresistible in its lure.

I step into the garden, this garden of the night, this garden of delights...and I am as one lost. The scent of the jasmine flower and the champa wraps its insidious fingers around my senses, and the sound of my pleasure is a soft sigh amid the noises of the night. I drink deeply from the cup of the fragrance, and the spell of enchantment is complete.

The steady drip of rain drops abandoned by the evening shower is a silent serenade; a stray drop a stolen kiss upon my cheek. I sway in surrender, and the scented breeze teases my skin like a lover's caress.

Down the wet stone path my feet carry me, over cool glittering blades of grass gleaming in the kind moonlight, to where the old swing stands sentinel in the darkness. I let the bittersweet memories assail me; a sense of poignancy and loss as I remember the sunshine...I close my eyes, and the night embraces me with oblivion.

The swing creaks as I lower myself onto it, the metal links cold against my fingers, the earth forgiving beneath my feet as I push off. With one hand I loosen my hair,let it spill onto my shoulders, and a zephyr gleefully starts to play hide and seek. I soar on the wings of the night, into the edges of a dream, if only I could go high enough. I tip my head back, shivering as the wind whips past and takes my breath away. Higher and faster, and higher, until my toes touch the jewelled stars in the sky, and I am almost weightless, almost there.....almost. Then the earth comes rushing back, like reality, and I am falling, falling to the ground...the swing slows, and quivers to a stop. I sit there, waiting - and let the night steal back around me on tiptoe.

The night is still dark...

Interlude

The world outside my window is green and wet and waiting, and the air heavy with the smell of damp earth and stifling life; resounding with the hum and throb of chirping cicadas, infinitely quiet and yet, unbearably loud. The plaintive wail of solitary bird quivers and dies amidst the silent trees, rebuked and chastened for daring to intrude upon the languor of the afternoon.

A whisper of a breeze floats in, laden with the scent of jack fruits, full ripe and swollen with water.

Water drips off the roof in a rhythm of uncertainty. I stretch out my hand, and the drops roll off my finger; each translucent, glowing globe pausing infinitesimally before falling to the ground,until my hand is wet and loved and caressed with the weight of them. One strikes the center of my palm, and the thrilling wine of sensual recognition runs through me.

I curl my fingers and draw them inside, and in doing so, knock over a cup on the table. A slow, sweet river of mango nectar, with that bite that kisses my tongue and fills my mouth, spreads and spills onto the floor. I mop it up, but the scent lingers; and all at once the smell of mellow mangoes and lazy summer is over-powering in the dark room.

I step outside to escape, greedily gasping in the blessed air - my toes sinking into the wet mud , and each grain in the millions of grains a loving caress. All is hushed, still, expectant...stretched to taut tension.

I turn my face to the sky - and then, suddenly, unexpectedly, the first drop falls upon my cheek...and another, and then another, until everything is awash in the joy of the rain; and the earth heaves a sigh of warm, blissful relief.

The world outside my window is green, and wet, and waiting no more.