My mornings begin before sunrise here. Simply because you just can’t afford to miss a sunrise in the mountains. Do you paint? I wonder why I don’t know the answer to that already, it’s so basic. Anyway, the closest analogy I could find for the today’s sunrise was God trying to decide what shade to paint the sky in for the day. He started with some pink, then decided it would be too cute; so he went on to add a little red for ferocity. However he also wanted a royal touch to it, there goes a streak of purple. But now the sky looks vaguely bruised, some orange would brighten it up, perhaps he hoped. Just when he had achieved the perfect colour, a bedazzling yellow Sun rose to the center stage and took all the game away. It declared blue pervasively, and all dear God could do was grumble. ‘Oh well. This is fine too. (Not as good as my colour tho)’
Once the sky is settled, I move to Ganga. Try hard as I might there just aren’t enough words in the English vocabulary to explain the phenomenon of Ganga to you jaan. Imagine a miracle, but tangible. Imagine divinity, that you can bathe in. Imagine cold fire, that courses like electricity around your very soul. One dip in the frigid flow of Ganga, and you realize that you’ve been living in a desert all your life, that you’ve never felt the touch of real water before, that every organ of your body is snapping out of mundane dormancy now. Some credit for the same goes to the geography of this place; Ganga, that flows through these parts is neither chilly like that in Badrikashram nor as placid as it is in Allahabad. She is youthful here, adventurous. Her mother keeps reminding her to be more tender, more civilized for she is soon to marry (the sea), and while she tries to gather the expected composure, she’s too independent and strong willed to be controlled.
Ganga is the manifestation of all magic.
The most uncanny thing about rivers is that they’ve always felt very alive to me. Of all aspects of Nature, rivers express their existence with unparalleled dynamism. I can’t shake off the feeling that we’re meant to learn something from the way Nature lives. You know, the art of living.
Parallel to this another stream of thought runs in mind. There is no end of the number of people and places trying to teach us the art of living, but who teaches us the art of leaving? Sadly, all discussion on death is perversely labelled morbid, but that doesn’t lessen the inevitability of death. For a fact we are to perish, for we were created; who teaches us how to leave and how to leave well? For in the end, isn’t that what matters the most?
All’s well that ends well.
I wish to bring you here soon jaan. It would be nice to share this little haven with you. I can’t walk past a tree without wondering what would this place feel like in your presence. I play a thousand scenarios in my head. If you would sing me songs by the river, or if we would spend our afternoons below shadowy trees, resting on each other and reading books. Would we dance to the winds? Would we sleep beneath the starry purple skies? Maybe we would cycle down the slopes every morning to catch the reflections of a rising Sun on water; maybe we would walk in unnamed directions, searching for home, only to find it in each other.
I think of you.