Five Thirty A.M.

When the voices of Azan- the Call to Prayers- elicit hints of ecstasy from the far ends of the streets and the wheels of the bicycles turn recalcitrant outside the Masajid, every being in the vicinity wakes up to the mesmerizing darkness of the morn.
It was not exactly an exotic view from where she sat but it was enough to make her not covet to move away from there. It was altogether too impossible that such little sparrows could make her feel something entirely too strong and uncanny for every time she lifted her head up to wait for words, she realized they came naturally just as the leaves on a nearby tree made no effort to move and were moved naturally. That was when she realized the power of morning prayers.
The chirps started subsiding and the sun waited to rise from behind the clouds. It seemed the crows needed a tad more time to resolve their early conflicts for they were now the only ones that were heard. But then, another sound- an envious interruption came to life. The quail could not hold it longer, it felt. And so it spoke. It felt like a pleading to the only ears that listened.
And the crows and the quails were left on their own.
Karachi had never felt so beautiful before. In the world full of wrong, it seemed like a place to live and not merely to survive. She wondered if there really was another place on earth which could fill her with such warmth. The early breeze from the window net blew the loose strands away from her face and she reveled in the soft feel of them oblivious to the way the breath of the wind enjoyed the reflection of the candle light on her hair. How long had it been that she had sat on that chair waiting for inspiration to come? It was ironic how it had come that morning. And suddenly she wondered if she should be grateful about the power cut; if it wasn’t for it, she would probably be sleeping under the cozy comforter surrounded by the artificially chilled air. Yet there she was, trying not in vain-she hoped- to make her dreams come true.
The sky gradually turned into an avid shade of blue mixed with yellow and she welcomed the brand new sparks of light into her life. She was surprised by the way everything seemed so zealous that day and tried pondering over what exactly was it that took for every minute in her life to make so much sense. It turned out it was that one pinch of optimism which her soul had embraced a minute earlier just when the sparrows had started expressing their enthusiasm about dawn. It was never too late she guessed and her pencil found itself being scratched against that piece of fresh paper which had relentlessly been staring at her since a couple of months now.
And so she began what she loved beginning. She started writing.

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