I sit on my bed, cross legged and sleepy. 

Deriving the same laws of motion,once calculated by an old man under a tree in a far away place, a far away time. 

Sighing at the long equations,I look up from my book. 

A large window in front of me.

A catchy bollywood song played by my renters.

But,it wasn't the song that had wrenched my attention.

A bright melancholy spread over all of the farmland in front of me.A strange sort of light permeating everywhere;the day is far past but the night still a few steps away from sky.

The sun chased out of the horizon by an army of stars. 

A hasty retreat evidenced by the bright red blush in the sky. 

I strain my ears.Concentrating on the silence between the spaces. 

I hear them once again.

A bunch of cicada's sing to each other in the dead of dusk.

I try to make out the language they string their notes in.

The words they sing to each. Of heartbreak, of desperation, of love. 

The bollywood song is still there, still alive but its getting harder to hear it,just like a balloon going higher and higher in the sky. 

The baloon is there but you don't see it anymore. 

A bird's chirp rocks my attention. 

Loud and clear.

Singing from a dias high above in the sky.

Probably from the same place where the balloon is,it starts chirping in an anxious cacophony. 

A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

Probably a mother's chirp after a hard day's toil to let her children know that she will be there. With food, with love,with warmth.

The cicadas on the ground and the birds in the sky.

I hear them both.

There, a minute or two on foot,a dog howls.

A dark angry howl. 

And it sets off a chain reaction.

Dogs barking and howling in mass.Fighting for narrow scraps of lands and food just like us humans. 

Yet, I still hear the birds and the cicadas.

The songs strangely fit in each other. Like each player has its time. Its own part to play.

I think I'm confined by these walls.

But, then,all of a sudden,I hear a cricket strain its vocals in my house.

In a flash I understand the gray concrete has its own beauty just like the verdant green outside.

The cricket starts singing trying to affirm this thought of mine.

And then as if its a divine signal, my mind opens up.

I hear it all.

A baby crying above my room.His echoes taunting all of the creation.

People talking far off in the distance.

The cattle herder calling the herd to his attention.

A bell tolls in the temple.

My mother watching her sitcom.

My breath slows down, mind slows down. Trying to comprehend these new sensations.

My mind isn't burdened by all this new information even though its massiveness dwarfs anything I have ever seen,ever heard,ever felt.

I already knew it.

Already knew it.

Had just forgotten it.

And like a long lost friend it embraces me, even after years of separation, with the same vigour, the same love,the same sparkle in his eyes that once was years ago in childhood. 

Everything that sings is me,everything that hears is me.I hear the desperation in cicadas trying to attract their mates, I hear the longing of the bird, I hear the aggression of the dog,I hear the happiness in the crickets trumpet, the baby's hunger pangs.

I hear everything.

I know everything.

I have become everything.

The orchestra blares loud in my mind yet my soul is at my clearest.

With clarity,I see all my thoughts cycling.

I see what the artists wanted to create.A perfection they were never able to know. Nature imitates art and art imitates nature.

I feel bliss unfelt. To be part of such an organism.

The whole world is alive.

Though, separated by vast distances yet our hearts resonate as one.

We kill each other,we love each other,we hate each other. Its all the same. A part of reality.

A truck sounds it's horn.The harsh note clear and blaring yet strangely not disrupting the orchestra,fitting in it.

For man is nature and nature is man.

I feel a calm happiness suffuse every cell of mine. It oscillates my bones, courses through every vein of my body ,being pumped side by side my blood, but not by my heart, but by reality's unavoidable beauty. 

I feel content.

There are stories played out by their individual actors all around and the world's alive and everything has its... 

My phone rings all of a sudden.

And then just like it all had started,like a flash of glorious epiphany,just like the one that old man probably had once,a few thousand miles away,a few hundred years away;it all broke down.

The orchestra strangely didn't turn into a cacophony considering the vivacious participants in it.

I try grasping at this bliss like a baby trying to clutch his hands but fall short of it. 

It disappeared just like wisps of thoughts do when you stop thinking about them, 

Like bubbles when you stop looking at them. 

You know they are there, bubbling around,dancing in the air,smirking at you mischievously, and you wish light would shine once more,so you see them again.

 Feel them them again.

I look at my book

Calculating the trajectories of a flying balloon and a singing bird.

The Bollywood song returns to me from the background. Not as grating as it was once.

Yet my soul, strangely calm bubbles with happiness, euphoric yet still,like a stream of clear water.

Because now I know.

That there's a bliss in knowing.

And all that because I had removed the curtains.

Both over the window and my soul.

And later on when I go out,I see the stars wink at me.

Knowing that we both share the same secret;like two boys do when they share a secret tryst of theirs, I smile back at them.