The taxi came to a screeching halt in front of the dilapidated building at midnight. The car-door opened raucously and a middle aged man in a khadi kurta stepped out. His curly hair was a mess, his face commonplace – an overgrown beard obscuring most of it; the rucksack on his back faded and worn-out. He stood fiddling with his pocket, apparently searching for some change. Handing the fare to the driver, he walked slowly to the rusty gate and into the building- swaying sloppily in his stupor; the cab zoomed away, leaving a suffocating grey smoke behind.
This momentary distraction irritated Hiya. She watched scornfully as the drunkard made his way into Mr. Sharma’s building, opposite to her own. Omaborsha nights always found Hia sitting on the parapet of her three-storied residence “Mayabini” at around midnight–singing to herself; the darkness and calm of such nights appealed to her in a way the silver mist of full-moon nights never did. She found a refuge in the shadows of these nights; the fact that she had an amazing voice was known to few, and she preferred not to share this secret with anyone to any further extent. So after days of meeting deadlines, rushing to cover stories with her cameraman Sayan and sleeping for less than 6 hours a day in order to submit her articles on time, she would dedicate the quiet new-moon night of each month entirely to herself.
A sudden cool breeze made Hiya forget about her momentary interruption and considerable annoyance; for a minute or two she closed her eyes and let the wind lazily caress her cheeks. Letting her waist long curly tresses loose, she hugged her knees closer to her bosom as her husky feminine voice broke the silence of the night for the third time:
“ Jokhon shobai mogon ghumer ghore,
Niyo go, niyo go, amar ghum niyo go horon kore;
Ekla rate- chupe chupe- esho kebol shurer rupe,
Diyo go, diyo go, amar chokher joler diyo shara,
Neeshitho raater bandol dhara..”