Tranquility - Call of the Yonder

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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