Young Writers Society

It was one of those days which shows all the auguries of a cloudburst right from the crack of dawn—the sun immured behind clusters of clouds, the sky staring at you with all the gloom in the world, and the wind invigoratingly humid. But despite all these promises, the day doesn’t even offer the slightest of rains.

Hasnat, Ashis, Mahin and Joy—a small gang in the hostel—had been waiting for the heavens to open for a long time. For them, life in the hostel was very much the same every day. But the rainy days were a rare exception—they could caper in the rain, take pictures, and whoop it up like little kids, forgetting all the odds of their real lives. Were it not for the pitiless weather, today could’ve been one of those rare occasions.

There was still no rain in the afternoon, but the wind accelerated its tempo and ran wild, sending specks of dust and dry leaves swirling in the air. Thinking fate had finally blessed them with something to enjoy, the four friends rushed to the hostel’s roof.

As soon as they set foot on the roof, the wind fell on them with all its might. Their skins greeted the present with goosebumps, their mouths with whispers like ‘Whoa’ and ‘Wow’. Full of energy and mirth, they gathered by the longest side of the roof’s railing—their favourite spot, as it covered a wide, beautiful background view with greeneries in the distance and the limitless sky on the horizon.

Joy took out his DSLR—the one that earned him a decent reputation. It was rumoured in the hostel that if photography was anyhow included in the Olympics, Joy would definitely snatch the gold medal. The same rumours yet again came to life as Joy put on a show with his skills. He took so long to take a single picture that tears began to sting his pals’ eyes and made them scream at him. But all the frustration died in a flash when he showed the pictures taken on the camera screen—such mastery he had over photography.

While Joy did the shooting, it was Ashis who came up with his smashing ideas on ‘posing’: hands tucked inside pockets, eyes pouted, hands on each other’s shoulders, moustaches clutched and curled, hair spiked, angry-faced, sour-faced and what not. Everyone responded quite nicely to his ideas, except for Hasnat. He was a guy you’ll find in every gang in the world—sweet, simple, naïve, and making everyone feel easy whenever they’re around. He made it clear with his expressions, be it with the face or gestures, that posing wasn’t really his thing; like when Ashis asked for an angry look from everyone, he stroke an awkward pose with his twisted nose, as though he was sniffing at garbage. And it goes without telling that everyone burst into a belly laugh at this gag, including Hasnat himself.

Amidst all the jubilance in the roof, there was something special in the air. A tight bond of friendship tightening every moment, as if four souls turning into one. No worries, no somberness, no boredom, not a shred of pretence; only vigorous, intense feelings from deep inside pouring out with gusto endlessly.

At that moment, Habib ambled his way into the roof. He took a glance at his rapturous peers, and then swivelled around. He walked to a corner of the roof quite far away from his peers. Resting his elbows on the railing, he leant out, his eyes roving around, glinting with curiosity.

Nature offered Habib a beauteous vista. The tall trees bowing askew, completely overpowered by the wind. The swirling of dust all around. The clouds sweeping and rolling to the wind’s direction, as if the wind was blowing them away. He’d seen the motion of clouds before—extremely sluggish, hardly noticeable—but it was the first time the clouds swept in the sky over his head, and it left his eyes dilating with disbelief.

He listened to the sound of the dry leaves rubbing against each other, and the profound, almost meaningful, whistles of the wind. They entered his eardrums and lingered, like a majestic classical melody—never turning old regardless of the passage of time.

There was an other-worldly spirit, Habib thought, out there in the open. It defied his imagination and explanation, but it was there, entrancing all his senses through and through. He bestowed himself to that spirit, as if it had woven a spell over him.

On the other side of the roof, Mahin had been inspecting Habib in between the pictures, thoroughly annoyed. Why Habib kept himself aloof from all the fun and stood stock-still alone was such a mystery to his mind. That fool will never enjoy friendship! He thought.

And Habib, accidentally finding his mates in his line of sight for a moment, soliloquized, “Taking pictures instead of savouring this spellbinding nature—how foolish!”