Gunjan Kohli
It Is one of those hot, sultry summer evenings, the kind where the air is moist and suffocating. I’m sitting in the lobby, sipping a warm cup of tea in my hands, as the last light of the day fades. The world outside is quiet, the only sound is the heat pressing against my window.
Then like a whisper a wind begins to rise. At first, it was just a faint rustling, but soon it grew wild-howling, shrieking like some restless spirit trapped in the sky.
Startled by a sudden knock on the door, as though someone was frantically rapping to get in, I froze, my heart pounding. The wind outside wailed and shrieked, calling me, scarring. And soon the rain followed-sudden fierce, a monsoon downpour drumming against the roof.
But inside the power cut led to a quiet, like the world was holding its breath, scared and anxious. I could almost see them -those ghosts of the wind. They were restless bound to storm carrying with them some past, angry and unresolved.
Then suddenly, the knock was gone as quickly as it came. So alive, so real, the monsoon winds carrying our fears and ghosts that refuse to rest bring me a reminder, these monsoon winds, that these ghostly winds, like old memories will always visit me fierce and unstoppable before the calm returns.
I call them the Ghosts of wind-just beyond the knock, waiting in the lull. |
