It was 5:00 AM, early Saturday morning. He got out of his bed, logged into his computer, opened the web browser and keyed in www.google.com in address bar and hit “Enter” key. Once the home page appeared, he typed “Was it my fault?”
He read through the first few results. Then keyed in “Am I ok?” And hundred such questions. He didn’t know what he was seeking. Sometimes we do not know where we want to go, how to reach there, but a random running around helps. At least this way we at times get to know where wedo not want to go. In his random searches and umpteen typographical errors, he keyed in “Khaled”.
The first result was “Khaled (musician) - Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia”. He opened and read. “Interesting,” he told himself. The next search result was a Youtube video. He opened it. He didn’t understand the song much but by the time he figured out the word “didi” in the song, he found his fingers playing an orchestra on the table. As the song progressed he allowed his feet to dance. With hands and feet, he slowly moved his shoulders. Hey keyed in “Khaled Songs” and there was a whole list of Arabic songs. He got up from the chair and closed the windows. The sun was yet to appear in the sky which was turning to purple from black. He put his left leg forward and then dragged the right one from window to the computer in compliance with the rhythm of the song. He pressed to F10 key to increase the volume to fullest of its capacity, then lifted the chair up in style, and pushed it back. Now with his legs, his whole body was dancing… to the tunes of Khaled, from one to the next song of his.
In that room then, there was no pain and no painful afterthoughts of an altercation. There was no hurt, agony, anger, or repent. It was full of dance and music. He felt every move of his body – how his hips shook, how his hands moved from left to right and back, how he jerked his head, moved his looks and how shook his legs. He was not present in the room, but was absorbed in his moves and was living in the flow of the music. When you find a connection with the sound, the words do not matter, it seems. Despite not understanding much of what was being sung, he could feel the music, piece by piece, tune by tune. And in the process, his sadness was gone. What remained was a soul full of life.
It was 6:30 AM when the doorbell rang. He dropped himself on floor, rested his body by placing his arms back. He could feel the pinch of a small pain and he founds a hint of a smile when he moved his face from ground to the fan up on the ceiling. He then got up suddenly and ran to open the door. The milkman was about to leave, after putting in the milk packet in the bag on the door. He called, “Good Morning, Shyam Bhaiya.”
“Arre, Good morning, sahib,” the milkman greened. “Too early today, you got up! Going to office?”
“No bhai, today I got up not for office but for life.” He smiled and said bye to the milkman.
When he closed the door, the speakers were still singing… from the few words he could only understand “Allah, Allah…” On his way to kitchen, he looked in the side mirror, smiled and moved forward, dancing with milk packets in his hands. His wound was healed by a doctor he had never known before, by a medicine he had never thought could work as a medicine.