Monday 11th May 2018

by Siddharth Soni

The morning eyes were sticky, reluctant to unseal in the sun that was concealed behind the mass seminar of clouds in the sky for quite long. Still trapped in the poignant scenes of the night, the helplessness, the trees that craved for help, and the family of window panes delivered into shards of glass, I could not easily adjust myself to the wizard phosphorescence of the sun. Glass was, perhaps the only articraft that did greater damage after it has been broken. That night, worth been recorded saw the same. Storms that night was one among the deadliest I have seen. The trees that were roughly visible from my distant window whistled for help as the brutal wind ran through the leaves. The dust that flew in the air, coupled with the daunting force that flipped cars over the roads could barely allow one to focus much towards what happened to your inner self. The rain followed, as the storm outside, whooshed and banged, the trees that stood in tolerance heaved and sighed and sometimes, merged among themselves to cast the image of a madly dance being played in the middle of a storm.

‘Did the trees enjoyed the wind that they danced, so precisely swinging their bellies’ I asked myself, ‘Or they are doing so in protest’, I dismissed the idea myself. The eery whistle of half-water and half-air in the tap inside the bathroom ceased, as the rest of my family noticed that the storm can grow disastrous. Wearing a two-wheeler helmet in shield, my father rushed out to ensure if the garage was safe. The angry storm and the sudden shots of petite glass objects rustled through the air. Only midway scorning the word ‘petite’ – A 600 kilogram log of the ‘kahiketea’ tree landed on the park to cause the cement upliftment to shatter into pieces of redbrick as the tree slept in bereavement. My table-lamp decked on the basalt made marble-floor, followed by two more wall hangings to shatter into oddments. I noticed distinctly, that my old underwear that was hung by a wire, that had suffered too much between my legs absconded, only once in between its flight of freedom, stopping by the window to bid a teasing goodbye.

The doors of our houses were sealed in protection. Feeling too remorsed for the weak, feeble sound of the goat outside, I ended up deciding not to get her in. The sounds of big bombardments followed, causing pandemonium that overstepped the annoying mix of Linkin Park’s.

‘We are fine here…’ My mumma was busy answering phone calls from around the country.

‘Hello’ — She said,

‘HELLO, HELLO’ — She yelled, demented. The tower deepwhere else might have been damaged in the countryside. The storm was the really powerful.

Gradually, the influence of the storm sapped. And the scenes outside were that of destruction. More than a million pieces of glass scintillated as I shone my torch light over them. The big Kahiketea slept with ease, in demise. And the tin sheds of the thousand houses gathered in musing of their ending lives. The construction outside the campus had been affected and the sound of the rainwater molecules struggling to run between the narrow drainage system was distinguishable.

The lone frog outside cried for his darling – tttt tttt as if he has swallowed the dial tone from Mumma’s mobile-phone. ‘HELLO’ said mumma for the last time as my eyes gave up their light for the day. The pillow seemed colder than before, and the old rug tasted comfortable again. The storm settled with their last few equivalents lagging behind in subjection to the poor window panes. Ones that have been shattered by nature, and told, if briefly that the truth was apparent.

Siddharth Raj Soni

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2 Responses to “The Typhoon of the Tempest Night”

  1. Sid says:

    Hello Siddharth,

    I really liked your art. Your close observation of Dayto day life is really wonderful.

    Thanks fo sharing. Keep the site uo

  2. Sid says:

    Brilliant, this one is really beautiful., loved the last one line the best

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