It is time. I stir as I hear a faint crackling through some far away speakers. I turn over, waiting. The sheet has since long left my bed and I have spread my limbs to get the best effect of the fan which stands prompted on the wicker chair next to my bed.
Through the darkness some light has found its way through the open window. It is filtered through the metal bars on my window, leaving a chequered pattern on the wall next to my four-poster. I turn my head against the window, listening. Not properly awake, nor properly asleep I feel myself drifting in and out of slumber. Before many seconds are up a loud cry pierce the night. But this is no undirected cry in the night. It starts on a low note and quickly escalates in a melodic way, pulling you in whilst warding you off with its metallic rustle. It is heartfelt, it is earthly and deep. A cry you will rarely hear in the western world. A cry that grips the heart and pulls it through your throat, leaving you gasping for breath. An ancient, ancestral cry which cannot fail to affect the listener. I am used to the cry, I have heard it before. To me it comes as on a wave, a wave of heat from the city outside. It gently shakes my sleep, bringing the harmonic melody to me even in my muddled half sleeping state.
In my dozing state I ride the waves of sound, letting it lead me away from my own dreams to those merging with the reality of the magical world outside. The prayer stops, and I turn away from the window. So dependable, so comforting, I would not wish for a night without this ephemeral interference.
