Reflection on Sunrise #2

Mornings are symbolic of a birth. It is the womb of unborn promises of a new day. In the silence of the morning, man is brought close to nature and in such serenity and tranquility he can hear his heartbeat, feel the pulse of the morning and glean from the secrets of a brand new day. Man is at his creative best at around this time, buoyed by the rest of an uneventful night sleep.

This pristine set-up of the sunrise might be varied in cities and town but not in the villages. The city robs man of the picturesque rise of sunshine above the hills: moving cars, morning madness, jam headaches, blare of car horns, mad rush, cacophony of human noises. In the village, sunrise is like a sacred ritual: morning rise to milk cows, trip to the river, trip to the abattoir where a goat is slaughtered. But in all this, the noises are those of human whistle, rustle of leaves, chirp of birds, lows of the cows, bleat of goats and generally moderate if not slow and haggard approach to the morning.

Amid all these, such a morning is a harbinger of either good or bad news, good luck or bad luck, blessings or curse. It is shrouded in the mystery of a previous night that was veiled in darkness. Looking at the sun, one can’t help to think about the secrecy that it conceals even in the glare of its rays.

How beautiful a sight it is then as children sit on the ground, head resting on the mud-wall of their hut, to bask in the warmth of such a morning sun? How does it feel taking a steamy cup of tea exchanging pleasantries as the morning wears on? What a sight it is seeing goats and cows leave the homestead to go to pasture and shrub fields, in full confidence whether nature brings them good tidings or ill?

The irony of this is that soon man is consumed in his daily activities, whether in the office or in the field. As his energy dissipates in the labour of his work, the sun in tandem grows unrelenting and stubborn. It is as if it is some conspiracy to pull worst surprise on the enterprising nature of man. One thing I have never understood about the sun is that at one minute it is one of the friendliest buddies to stay close to and the next minute it is one of the fiendliest chap you want to stay away from. 

As the sun dies in the West, it is a befitting Elegy to the travails of the sun in the life of man, of its radiance, glory, incandescence, of its beautiful lessons, of its inconsistencies of being one time fiery and next time fully spent and of its last glory in its warm glow.