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I have been in the prison for 13 and half years as a political prisoner.
When I was first imprisoned, I was cast in a tiny solitary cell for the first six months without being permitted even a book to read. I was hungry and so lonesome.
But the greatest hardship I met with in prison was that there was no music there. But later on I came to know that music was there. In summer, when it began to rain at a distance, first came the smell of dust and then the sound of rain. It came nearer and nearer to my attentively listening ears. The sound became bigger and bigger and bigger. And suddenly the rain began to pour down and drummed violently on the tin-roofs of the old prison buildings. Then there were the sound of the water gushing out of the gutters and the creaks of the iron bars and the gates. Throughout the prison there was a flood of music. And suddenly the lightening came running across the sky and the thunder a little later, making the musical performance more dramatic. What a spectacular music it was!
In the yards and in every nook and cranny there grew various kinds of plants. Even out of the cracks on the high concrete fence there were living tiny wild plants. They had their four seasons. In spring, they awoke and raised their green fists. In summer, they boasted of their exquisite flowers. In autumn, if a careful observer, you could watch how they were busy with the harvest. And in winter, the thin dry stalks of wild plants, high up on the top of the concrete wall, were waiting for the spring to come enduring steadfastly the piercing north wind.
The winter in prison was terribly cold. There were no stoves, no heating system whatsoever. The temperature in the room was almost the same as that of the outside of the building. If you put a bowl of water in your room, you would find a lump of ice in there in the morning. In the freezing night I was cold and lonesome. Yet my consciousness became so still and so concentrated and my senses so keen and vulnerable. My breathing became silent prayers. When there was a full moon in the cold sky, the moonlight flooded in through the small window of my cell and painted blue waves of the ocean on the opposite wall. I arose and tiptoed to look out at the trees in the yard. In the moonlight they were thrilling with joy as well as with cold, just as I was. I said âHiâ to them in a low, quiet voice and they returned âHelloâ in a shy motion, we could have long consoling talks with each other.
But, alas! Since I was released, I have lost that stillness in the routine of daily life.
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