Dawn

There is a hint of irony in human nature. Greed throws us into quarrels over bits of printed paper. It has us fighting furiously for bits of earth to plant concrete on, when Earth herself would be bountiful enough in accommodating and feeding the warring parties if she were left alone. Yet this same greed nudges us to try to accumulate and preserve ephemeral joys, to photograph a snow-capped mountain range, to record a child's unbridled laughter, to pen verdant words at the start of monsoon. This greed can thus lead us to boundless sorrow but also boundless joy. And so it is this powerful beast has galvanized me into writing about my favourite time of the day, the precious minutes of dawn. Dawn is a time of such perfect calm that one is hesitant to move lest one trample on its fragile beauty. It is a time of restfulness for life. The air itself breathes in silence at this hour. The trees are bowed in quiet humility to the serenity of the hour. The hardships of the previous day are fleetingly forgotten by humans, and the animals have a sojourn from the struggle for survival. Even the alert owls, those sentries of the night, relax their eyelids a little, as if trusting themselves in the safe arms of dawn. Blades of grass are bathed in dew, and flowers can be seen adorned in water droplets. The unobtrusive lighting of twilight renders nature in its pristine shades. The moist earth is teasing with its intoxicating smells. One can sit in a state of such blissful communion with one's surroundings that its almost impossible not to smile the whole time. Then one sees the red hues on the horizon, the carpet for sunrise. And one begins to sense the first stirrings of life. The chirping of the bird in celebration of the hour. The confused stray dog rummaging a refuse heap for food. The distant whistle of an early morning train. The sound of water gushing out of someone's tap. One is suddenly made conscious of all the humans that are stealthily opening an eye to glean meaning from their alarm clocks, those ticking time bombs that jolt them out of rest. In a few hours from this time we will all have hurled ourselves headlong in to the tumult and turbulence of daily life. It seems almost understandable that we don't allow ourselves to witness dawn very often. It would be well nigh impossible to soak in such perfection, to dilute one's grit, to wash away one's worries, to dissolve one's fears, and then to pull oneself together to carry on with the banalities of daily existence. Dawn can thus paralyze. Yet, if one is ever longing leave from loneliness, or escape from boredom, or freedom from depression, or even faced with an existential crisis, to live through the hours of dawn is enough to give a new lease of life itself.