The early morning fog and the chill seemed real. The Yamuna in Delhi, stagnant and static, had disappeared. So did the little huts in the little forests across the floodplains, vegetable gardens, water bodies and agricultural fields ready for the next round of sowing. You could smell the fog, this thick, white expanse of fake eternity, as you ride through it on a bike.
The fog and the chill was seeping inside my shirt like an unfamiliar stranger. I felt cold and forsaken. This was a solitary and sad morning, for some strange reason. And it was not fog. It was smog. It was pollution.
A deadly, deathly Delhi pollution, which would enter the eyes and make it burn, and become part of the breathing process of life and death. The throat still aches, as it has been aching since the last two months of this vicious haze.
There is an ache in the air. A slow, ceaseless pain.
Since the last season of fulfillment and longing. The absence, and the presence. There is a strange sadness in the air, like Vivaldi’s violin, playing ‘Winter’. Or, Beethoven’s 9th symphony, ‘Ode to Joy’, in the midst of a ravaged Gaza.
I remember the little mountain Utopia surrounded by dense, tall, sal forests and wild flowers on the Himalayan foothills. I escaped there on a train so that I don’t get killed by another Diwali. Anyway, being alone (and not lonely) has its own share of optimism, and despair.
I am stuck in the house, all alone, trapped, all doors and windows shut, crackers bursting everywhere, the birds and animals scared to death, lights everywhere instead of diyas, and I am right there, in the epicentre of this ‘heart of darkness’.
My heart, soaked with the dark loneliness, of another festival.
In this little Utopian village of less than ten families, I live in a mud and stone house with floors made of wood. I touch the walls, and it is a soothing feeling. In the distance, in the darkness of the night, the north wind resurrects a frozen memory, which lingers, like a living memory. Sometimes, a simmering wound.
Sometimes, a sudden, golden smile which spreads, filling my soul with light and lightness. Gratitude.
The light of the night travels across the forest into the far-away horizon, as if a full moon sea-tide is playing its rhythmic to and fro of infinite passion out there. It’s far and close-by at the same time, like a cinematic image. A mirage. The sea, the wind, the resurrected memory.
And that sudden, spontaneous smile!
What I can really hear is the mountain stream gurgling down below, moving rapidly across stones and rocks between dense mountain forests, carrying little, colourful stones, leaves, petals, living creatures, sharpening the edges of the rocks, turning them into sublime sculptures. It moves rapidly and constantly, emerging from the hidden depths of nature, in this dark abyss, and its sound heals my soul. If the sea tide fills me with a mad passion, this gurgling stream, enters my body, cools my eyes, fingers, skin, soothes my restless nerves, gives me water to drink and quenches my thirst. It makes me calm. I drink the water and it is so delicious that you want to carry it inside you, forever.
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The night is like this only, slightly unrequited, but not so incomplete either. There are wild animals in the darkness, predators looking for a meal. The leaves leave their origin up in the sky, and fall on the ground, as soft as a leaf, becoming substances of the earth. Little branches and fruits fall off the trees, crackling like faint, female laughter in the dark. The night dew is soaking the flowers and their petals outside in the wild. Little purple flowers, so moist and tender, and so tiny that even stars seem to shine inside their bodies.
The galaxy of stars in the sky — you can touch them too — like a fleeting moment of deep connect expressed with a mere glance. Just about half-a-second, a quick exchange in silence, shared in time and space. It’s tangible, this touch with the eyes. A moment of faith and trust between two human beings. A secret and strong bonding. Human bonding.
The world suddenly becomes a better place. It’s possible.
Evening falls. I read about Jim Corbett’s travels inside the forests of Kumaon. It is beautifully penned by Stephen Alter — In the Jungles of the Night. My mountain village is in Garhwal — not far away from Kumaon. The forests, streams and rivers unite them, and the animal corridors. They belong to the same Himalayan geography.
Corbett has waited with his rifle on an ‘amla’ tree all night, waiting for the man-eater tiger to emerge near the half-eaten body of the village boy it has killed. He is hungry and thirsty. He eats the amlas to quench his hunger — they are sour and delicious.
The wounded tiger knows that the hunter is waiting. He is therefore elusive, waiting patiently in the nocturnal shadows, nursing his wound, perhaps, keeping a watch on the amla tree. The tiger knows him well.
In the morning, Corbett finds a mountain spring, gushing out of a rock. He drinks his fill — cupping the water in his palm, like we used to do in JNU, drinking water from a dilapidated cooler inside the damp hostel mess. Thirst quenched, he finds a pair of dark, intense eyes watching him. She is a sultry, beautiful woman in a saree, gazing at him, as if she knows all about him.
This is one fleeting moment which suddenly becomes a complete moment — of a human bonding. Face to face, man and woman. A story is waiting to unfold.
She lives alone near a river in a hut. Her only friends are a primordial tribe which live in mountain caves as a community — hunters and food-gatherers, in tune with nature. She collects herbs and sells them to Ayurvedic doctors in the town. She learned about herbs from her father.
She says that the tiger watches her from a distance. She can feel his presence. He has never harmed her. They accept each other as legitimate residents of this piece of earth. She knows the exact location of the tiger in a given moment. But, no, she will not tell it to Corbett. The village-folk in the forest think she is a witch. She cares a damn!
She asks for a cigarette from Corbett. She makes a cup of hot tea. They smoke in silence. A camaraderie has been formed.
Mornings don’t arrive here like mornings in the cities. There are birds chirping and the chill seeps through the jaali of the windows. The air is so clean and pristine, that you can drink it like spring water. Sunshine arrives from across the mountains like a soulmate and warms the skin and eyes — I turn my face towards it in gratitude. Here comes the sun…. as the song goes (Beatles).
Another day has begun. One breath at a time. One day at a time. No, life is not elsewhere!
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