Tranquility:
Call of the Yonder
He was there – standing – hands stretched out, palms up. The
sheet of ice – like a vast ocean – was before him; the chilly wind breaking
against his face. He could feel the bite at the edges of his body – at his
ears, at his nose, at his arms. He could hear himself breathe – the sound, a
regular rhythm. The rhythm was of water being drawn from a well, the rhythm of
bells tolling in a temple, the rhythm of a hundred pipes singing elegies at a
time. Sound had ceased to seem differentiated to him. He had stood where he
had, to see, to smell, to feel, to hear. Yet he could do none of these. In the
ocean of white ice which had mountain peaks for boundary, he could see umpteen
colors – all the seven colors of the rainbow in addition to those that he could
not identify. When he exhaled, the sound was reflected by the mountains. It
seemed as if his offerings were returned to him – multiplied. He could hear the
echo of his breath. He could feel – in fact he had wanted – the icy winds cutting
at his flesh.
Yet, it was as if all these feelings did not matter to him.
He was aloof. He could neither see nor hear. Neither smell nor touch.
He was dead.
Going along with the rut of his life, he was neither happy
nor sad. He was living because life was there. it had to be led. He did what he
did because that had to be done. He never questioned nor did he know who
determined what had to be done. He did it for the sake of doing it. He did not
ask. He did not know. Still, he was alive!
He was alive because he knew that he did not know. He had
asked himself not to ask. He felt the absence of feelings and he could smell
the absence of any odor. He just knew that he was alive.
Then, one fine morning, life ceased to be. Something seized
his life-force. He knew not what. He only felt that he could no longer see what
lay in front. He could no longer hear what words were uttered. Words ceased to
have any meaning for him. He left life as it was! He moved away. Away from his
senses; away from his sensibilities and away from his surroundings. He just
moved away because he had to. It was as if he was ordained to move away from
himself as he knew himself to be!
He went to a river. He started moving as the river did –
only, against its flow, towards the source. He felt perfectly normal, perfectly
natural, perfectly perfect, and normally natural. He did not feel the absurdity
of moving against the flow. Of the river. Of the movement. Of life.
He could hear the gurgling sounds of water breaking against
its banks. Huge boulders being rounded by the flow of the river. By the
movement of the river over them. by the force of life. Involuntarily, he
brought his hand to his head. It too felt rounded. Had he been weathered by the
elements too? Or was he supposed to have a round head? He never questioned. He
just moved. He crossed many streams- small and shallow. There he saw the force
of water; the speed of the river, much more than that he had seen downstream.
But here too, he saw the same conspicuous round-headed stones! Only here, they
did not have any moss over them. Again he felt his head. No, he did have some
crops of hair over his head. Because he was supposed to have that.
He moved ahead. Because he had to. To go to the source. The
source of water. Of the shallow streams. Of the wide river. Of the round-headed
stones. Of the gurgling sounds. Of the speed. Of the force. Of life. He just
had to move ahead. As if propelled by some unseen force. As if hurled by some
catapult. He felt compelled to move. Obliged to do so. To whom, he knew not. He
asked not. He just moved. He could feel the movement. All around him. He was
live to the changes. He could see that barring himself, everything else had
changed. He could barely feel the same things that he could earlier. He did not
possess the same sensibilities. His surroundings had changed. He did not have
his friends with him any longer. Nor his foes. He did not have nobody with him
any longer. He had himself for company. And yet, he did not feel lonely. He did
not feel the need of anyone to be with him. He did not feel any need anymore.
He did not feel. He was dead.
And he moved ahead. In the direction opposite to that of the
river. Towards the source.
He could feel how contagious the force of the river was. The
force of its movement. The force of its speed. The force of life. He could feel
almost a bond of empathy, a bond of kinship, with the river. With the
round-headed stones. With the gurgling sound. With the force of life. He was
alive to all this and much more and yet not.
He was alive to the fact that the speed of the river upstream
was increasing. Increasing phenomenally. He could sense that the vegetation
that sprang at the banks of the river was becoming dense and greener. As if it
was attached to a cornucopia of life-giving force. He could sense that the
smell of the air had changed. It was less polluted. Less violated. More serene.
So seemed the sound. Silent. Deafeningly silent. It seemed as if the whole
universe was drunk on the rhythmic sounds of the river. Of its waters. Of its
constant struggle with the round-headed stones! Of its struggle with its banks.
Of its struggle to take anything in its wake down. Down to destruction. Down to
the ocean. Down to silence. down to perpetual silence. Down to death.
He was alive to all these. He himself seemed to be under a
strange charm. It seemed to him as if he were moving in the right direction.
And the river made it a point to go against him. But it did not matter. He did
not care. Why should he? He had never asked questions. Life goes on as it
should!
And he moved. Till he could not keep pace with the
against-the-river. He knew that the force that had propelled the river down was
much stronger than the one that had propelled him up. And, yet, he did not
care. He did not feel the enormity of his task – of reaching the source of the
river. Of the movement. Of speed. Of life.
Time had ceased to hold any significance to him. For he had
forsaken his present. He was going towards the origin, the source. He thought
he was living in his past. And when he would reach the origin, he would already
have lived his future. He moved. Relentlessly. Restlessly.
When? – he did not know. How? – he did not know. Where? – he
did not know. When he opened his eyes, suddenly, there was nothing around him.
He was surrounded by a vast ocean of nothingness. He could
not feel anything. For there was nothing for him to feel. Nothing to touch.
Nothing to hear. Nothing to smell. Nothing to see. Nothing for him to
understand. Not a word or whisper was being uttered. Nothing lay in front of
him or behind him. He was surrounded by a vast open sheet of gold. Shining and
in turn giving its light to the Sun. to give to the whole world. A vast ocean
of pure, pristine ice. Snow. As far as he could see – there was only snow. He
was standing on snow. He was surrounded by snow. Snow-clad mountain peaks. But
everything was cold. He could feel nothing. Nothing could feel him. It was an
apathetic understanding – mutual. He had reached the source of the river. Of
the movement. Of the river. Of its speed. Of its force. Of its life. Only, here
there was no river. No movement. No speed. no force. No life. Even he was
standing still.
Just like everything else.
He was dead. As everything else was.
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