February 5, 2010
At 6 am the world is such a canvas of tranquility. Outside my Malè window the calm pale blue seas stretch as far as the eyes can see; the skies blush with a hint of rose in the east; and azure ripples waltz gently with the white of light surf, speckled with the gold from the just-rising slant of sunlight.
As on all mornings the music to this beautiful backdrop is provided by the melodious call of the koel in the solitary mango tree that grows underneath my hotel window. I can’t see the koel but I can hear her. The plaintive sound cuts through time and space and takes me into childhood’s backyard when I heard a different koel sing in a different mango tree; and when lazy days were spent in a cloud of comfort that came from just knowing that I was loved beyond all else. The koel’s song this morning unearths those memories which speak of happy times and yet still manage to evoke a feeling of deep sadness - for the loss of childhood, the loss of innocence, and the loss of those who loved me. Yes, the koel’s song is beautiful yet fringed with pain.
Another sound that I have become used to is the call for prayer. Here in Malè there are mosques everywhere – in blues that match the sea and sky, and golds that match the light of the sun. There is a mosque right by my hotel and every day I hear the call for people to come to prayer – to remind them even in the midst of busy diurnal schedules of the bigger force that permeates the universe. Again there is that plaintive quality to the sound of the call – a promise of bliss in whichever form you might be searching for it, a promise of love and hope but also a reminder of loss and pain.
Joy and sorrow – the basics of human emotions - without one we can’t appreciate the other. In journeying through life we perhaps strive for both in our need to know both – just as in this moment I find myself listening for notes of love and loss in the song of the koel and the call of the muezzin.