Night-Time At The Barn

The first few drops of rain touched his shrunken skin and disintegrated into numerous molecules. He was still fast asleep. The sound of the distant rumbling of thunder echoed through the surroundings. As if nature itself wanted him to go back to the safety of his dilapidated barn. A gentle nudge of cold wind threw the hat covering his face into a frenzy. More raindrops tiptoed into those crease marks on his face. Finally, he woke up with a sudden surprise. His eyes seemed to still reside in the world of dreams, his senses still trying to make sense of the cloudy surrounding. It was all sunny a moment back but the sudden advent of these clouds and the rain disturbed his afternoon siesta. Picking up his hat and the folding chair, both half-drenched, he quickly made his way back into the barn. He wanted to make sure that his old companion was alright.

The wide door of the barn was half-open when he had left for his daily siesta under the sun. He was relieved to see it almost in the same position. He switched the neon light bulbs on, as he breathed in the familiar smell of the hay and his old horse. The sky grew darker and darker and the raindrops tipper-tapered on the wooden roof. He could see a puddle in the center of the barn, the roof leakage that he couldn’t fix himself. Someone needed to be called. The whole monsoon season is yet to arrive.

A sudden sound of thunder. It still managed to send shockwaves through his spines. Since childhood. His horse, Casper neighed. Did he feel the shockwaves too? He looked around. It’s almost dark. He could still see black clouds near the horizon. But beneath them was an orange glow of the setting sun. As if a painter had crafted it all in the canvas of the sky. What a beauty, he thought.

Every day, he and Casper would go to a nearby place to gather wood for dinner, but today he did not feel like it. There are some extra woods to cook dinner. He looked around at the barn. His home. The only property left that he can call his own. Those sad days when the house, his childhood house, over a hundred years old, had to be sold. Those sad days, when the other animals in this barn had to be given away. But, Casper was his childhood friend. With nowhere else to go, and most of the relatives refusing shelter, the barn was the place. The bed and some of his utensils were situated on the top part, which stored hay in those good, old days. Casper stayed downstairs, with a little makeshift kitchen on the corner. That was his world. He didn’t want this little world to crumble. Literally. The structure was old enough and the torrential rain and winds managed to shake it up. But just like him and Casper, despite the adversities, it stood strong for the time being.

There are rarely any visitors to his place except for his postman friend who drops by on Saturdays and Sundays. They sit by that huge tree and enjoy a steaming cup of coffee while listening to the yesteryear songs on the radio. He loves those two days and eagerly waits for Saturday to arrive soon.

Behind the tree is a space that was a graveyard. Where the local people are still buried. There lies his family and ancestors. He visits them sometimes with a bouquet of flowers. It feels good to know that they are near to him, although not alive.

There’s this lady who arrives sometimes, with a bag full of fruits and vegetables. Probably some money as well. She seemed to be middle-aged. She would stay on for a couple of days and vanish as secretly as she arrived. No one nearby knew who she was. Nor did the old man talk about the mysterious visitor.

He emptied a box of noodles to boil on the wooden stove. Outside the weather deteriorated. Heavy rains lashed across the land. He only hoped that nature wouldn’t be so cruel to do more damage to his solitary shelter. Casper already had his dinner. That guy is always scared of thunder and lightning. Doesn’t even leave his area whenever flashes of light shine on the glass window panes. Must have already been asleep by now. They end their day together, looking towards the moon from the windows. Somedays sleep doesn’t arrive as fast as it should. Like today. The afternoon siesta is the culprit. He knew what was needed today.

Slurping down the noodles quickly, he washed the dishes down. After wrapping it dry in a piece of cloth, he made his way to the cupboard near the other end. His eyes shone as the trembling hands bought out a glass. Then his hands reached for a bottle and out came the same with a liquid floating inside it. He poured down the liquid, making sure it reached the brim of his glass. Putting the bottle back inside and closing the cupboard, he looked around for his chair.

With quite a bit of effort, he was able to reach near the big doors of the barn which were closed already. He opened it a bit, yes the weather’s much better now. Although the trees and the flowers sang songs of the rain, it was okay. The sky was cleared and the moon peeped through one of the clouds. He placed his chair just outside the door. A cold wave of wind caressed his senses. It had the smell of the earth, which instantly made him feel fresh again. One handheld the glass, while the other switched off the light. A little shout of goodnight to Casper, but he was already in the dreamland. The whole area plunged into a multitude of darkness except for the fading moonlight. The eerie silence engulfed his senses for a brief moment before his ears could catch the noise of crickets and maybe some other invisible insects, chit-chatting amongst themselves hiding behind the leaves of trees. He loved being surrounded by nature and its sounds. A deep feeling of tranquility filled his veins as he sipped the drink. And then a few more sips. He closed his eyes.

A moment of silence again. Then a slow murmur. Dense movements. He smiled and opened his eyes. Those sleeping souls have woken up. They made their way slowly, up from the deep dark caskets in the farthest corners of the ground, as if waiting for this exact moment of the night to feel liberated and take a stroll. They seemed to ignore him, though. And he disn't disturb them as well. He knew a lot of those faces though. Some were his family, friends, and also her. His love of fifty years. He sees her sometimes walking around the area in that beautiful dress he had gifted her on their fiftieth marriage anniversary. Yes, he calls her some nights with a hope that she’d probably smile for a bit. But, no. No response from her or anyone he sees.

None of them seem to have any purpose, they keep walking nonchalantly. Around the farm, looking here and there, but not towards him. Strangely though, he’s never afraid of them. He feels good seeing them and knowing they are there and he can at least reach out and spend some time around them. Was it all a figment of his imagination? Triggered by the liquid? If it was so, he wished to let it be that way.

As his drink neared its end, so did the movement. Once the glass was completely empty, the silence engulfed him again. The images and the people evaporated. Sleep was ready to wrap him in its arms. With great effort, he managed to push him inside onto the bed to wake up again the next day, which was also a Saturday. Two days of happiness and maybe an encounter with his family again in this way or be with them, permanently, someday.