Fast asleep, I hear a gentle knock on the door. I wake up with a start. 'Who can it be?' The question and the attendant tension grip me abruptly. I remain sitting, reluctant to get up. I yearn wistfully for the person, whoever he may be, to go away after knocking.

The sound of knocking grows progressively louder. I pretend that I am far, far away – beyond its reach. With every passing second, it moves closer to me. The jagged noise swells and spreads helter-skelter all over that pitch dark room.

Not consciously aware that I must open it, I keep staring at the door. When I can no longer postpone what is expected of me, I am overcome by fear. Nobody is likely knock on our door foolishly at midnight to tell us about what's for lunch tomorrow or how the servant girl had not come in that day. Bad news is more than likely. In the past, news delivered in this manner at midnight had turned out to be horrible, destroying the setting of my life. These days, a knock on the door is enough to scare me. Passing whole nights in anticipation of a knock on the door has become intolerable grief.

Light suddenly fills the whole room, disrupting my senses. 'Wretch! Why are you sitting down here with your eyes wide open, and not opening the door?'

Angry that his sleep has been disturbed, he yells as he gets up to open the door. Sleep is more important to him than anything else. Each step he takes towards the door feels like a tremor within. What terrible news awaits us on the other side of the door, Ya Allah! The heart whispers and writhes in agony. I feel the urge to rush forward and grab his hand in order to stop him.

He draws the latch back noisily, unmindful that he might wake the baby. Someone standing outside the door is speaking to him in soft tones. Unable to understand the low whisper, I try to listen with all my concentration. Lying in bed, I crane my neck to see who the speaker could be, thinking I might infer the news merely by looking at the face. His form has blocked the person entirely from my view. I try to get up from the bed, to ask him what the matter was. No matter how hard I try my body flops back, totally bereft of strength.

Unable to bear the tension, I close my eyes. I invoke God in my mind. The news that will reach me in just a little while – who could it be about, what will it do to me? I am reminded of the book I had stopped reading halfway. I remember Amma. How am I going to endure this? Within a minute, everyone's face appears before me and fades away.

He steps out of the room, uses the telephone in the hall to talk to someone—to whom, it is not clear. I feel suffocated; breathing has become very difficult. My whole body seems to be roiling in fright. News received in the past had instilled fear more than sorrow in me—a constant, unrelenting fear. Fear is a more powerful emotion than grief. This imminent news could overturn everything in my world. Now he comes back into the room, picks his shirt off the hanger, wears it and steps out.

'What is it?' I ask him hurriedly. My voice sounds extremely feeble. Without turning towards me, he says, 'Nothing.'

He bolts the door from outside and walks away. His reply is scornful, as usual. Whenever he displays his scorn, it has provoked me to anger or tears. Now, unlike those times, I feel relieved. I feel strong, even. If the news was terrible, he woudn't have been scornful. His reply makes me even happy.

That state of mind lasts barely a few seconds before another doubt surfaces. His 'nothing' could also signify a protective concern. Did he say 'nothing' only because the news had to be hidden from me? If that's true, then…

Fear returns and clings to me again. I am close to breaking down. If I had looked at his face, there would have been no room for confusion. Angry at my lapse, I reproach myself.

If I had listened to the voice, things would have been clear to some extent. My mind was focussed not on learning the news but on avoiding it. My head aches. I press my temples tightly with both hands.

I don't know what time it must be. What's the use of knowing, anyway? The sound of a stray dog howling outside the window gives me the shivers. I feel tormented when I recall that a dog howling is supposed to be a bad omen. Hearing the dog howl, a few more dogs join in and howl along with it. One after another, it swells to a relentless chorus of baying. I don't know where so many dogs have come from.

There's no help for it but to keep staring at the door till he comes back. My gaze refuses to hold steady. Why, why, why – the question seems to reverberate inside my skull.

Darkness has invaded everywhere. Suddenly, I feel as though I am inside a dilapidated cave. Like a fly trapped in a spider's web, I am gripped by fear and my body grows limp. My mouth is muttering repeatedly, 'Ya Allah! Save me.'

My body grows taut from having sat for so long in restless anxiety, and breaks into a sweat. I hear the sound of the room's door being opened. This is the moment when the mystery that surrounds me is going to dissolve. He comes into the room, unbuttoning his shirt.

He latches the door and goes to bed without saying anything. I turn on the light, wanting to hear the details. The darkness which had filled the room just a while ago disappears in an instant. He, who has been trying to go to sleep, closing his yes, shouts angrily, 'You wretch! Don't spoil my sleep. Turn off the light.' Without a word in reply, I switch off the light. Darkness, which had been waiting outside, has come into the room stealthily, without making a sound. It has spread itself above our heads, on the roof-beams, on our bodies, and particularly on his face. Darkness has a very strong appeal. It sits comfortably under my bed where no light can enter, and gazes at me.

I sit there wondering whether I should ask him or not. How long can I stay like this, gripped by fear and tension? I must of course face the consequences of unraveling the mystery – if not now, later! What am I going to accomplish, deferring such knowledge to a later time? I feel as though the tension and fear are about to kill me.

'What's the matter? Where did you go?'

He turns abruptly.

'Won't you just drop it, after I've told you it's nothing? Don't ask me unnecessary questions and take the life out of me! What constant hassles because of this bitch. What a wretch you are!'

After yelling at me, he turns over and goes to sleep. The scorn in his voice had been at its peak.

The peace that had descended into the room from somewhere brings me some relief. 'Allah,' I mutter to myself. As the tension has left me completely, the agitation I had felt has now subsided. Fine, I can live without fear from now on; try and go to sleep. But the door remaining locked does make me feel afraid. The street dog has not stopped its yowling yet.

Let the door stay open. For me to live without fear, the door must be left open. If the fear persists, I feel I might become insane.

'Listen.'

I wake him. He is already fast asleep.

'What?' he asks in an irritated tone. 'Why don't we keep the door open,' I tell him hesitantly. Uncomprehending, he asks, 'Why?' 'Just like that.'

'Why do you trouble me like this in the middle of the night. If anyone comes to hear of this, they will spit on you. Can't you sleep with the door locked?'

After shouting at me, he goes back to sleep. I remain sitting there, feeling no urge to reply.

About the author:

Salma is a leading woman poet in the contemporary Tamil milieu. She has published two collections of poetry and a novel, which has been translated into English as The Hour Past Midnight. Over the years, Salma has also published several short stories set in the Muslim social milieu of Tamilnadu. Salma is currently Chairman, Social Welfare Board under Tamilnadu Government, based in Chennai

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