A Mere Mortal
(1) A gentle breeze kissed the curtains of the dimly lit room. A candle by the sill danced to the vibrant tunes of the zephyr as its shadows danced in the background against the patched wall smack opposite the window. The sky was a masterpiece, painted red with a tinge of orange, and kept on fading with time. Blue tits were on their way back home, sketching patterns that could defeat the imagination of any artist. The countryside appeared to be desolate and void, a mere shadow of the past. The vegetation in the neighbourhood taken over by tall grasses and babuls, roads unkempt and crisscrossed with mud patches and stones, rendering them intractable. The only way to his home was a small pathway bordered by humble banyans that towered the track from both sides. When monsoons would arrive, the pathway would be more or less a stream, channelling the water to the doorsteps of the brick house. Remains of paper boats and yellow banyan leaves would be boating through the way, occasionally carrying privileged passengers on them � Red Ants who dived down the trees due to the heavy rains, or millipedes who lost their way home. The house had been there since times forgotten, had been a powerhouse when times were brighter and hopeful. It had crumbled down on feudal disputes and in its present shape would not withstand the merciless weather that was prevalent in the village. White termites had rented out the cracked pillars on the veranda since a year or two, rendering them weak and powerless. The wooden windows had turned pale grey and incomplete, being a regular breakfast for their neighbours on the pillars. He wasn�t as old as the house, but he looked so. His face was a complicated sketch of lines, scars and wrinkles. His eyes bore an expression of tranquil, supported by heavy bags. He hadn�t shaven in months, so a thick grey beard masked his emaciated cheeks. For him, the only notions that the time was indeed moving forward were the heavy tick-tack of the Seikosha that decorated the wall , the hourly dang-dang preceded by noises of rusted spring windings and the way the light kept brightening and fading through the day. He lied on his back upon the creaking spring bed, one among his antique possessions in the house (he had many), and stared through the window guarded by the red flame that rendered no colours to the view outside. The day was dying. The ringing of bells in the Community Church woke him up from the thoughts that were infesting him since a few hours. He could see the holy cross from his bed, very much a solace for him in times of abject helplessness and solitude. No being had paid him a visit since a few days to offer a helping hand, and he was forced to live on lentils and carrots he had stock of. He could just manage to get up and sit on the bed, and that was the most he could do with his body. Walks were extremely rare, except for the few footsteps he needed to make it to the privy. He was tired. No sweat and heat, just pure exhaustion. He closed his eyes, waiting for slumber to arrive in its black chariot and give him a drive through darkness. A few minutes into it, he had fallen into a deep sleep. The gates of darkness had enveloped him. (2) A faint ray of light was visible at the end of it all. He escalated through the dark like a bale of cotton in the pleasant evening breeze. As he grew closer to the light, he could see that there were no surprises in the new world that lay ahead of him. A picturesque landscape was in sight, and it was nearing twilight. He took his first brave step into the new land. It was not so unpleasant. The place too wasn�t too unfamiliar. He walked ahead, with carefully paced steps, and looked around for some familiar faces. But there were none. In fact the land seemed unoccupied. He shouted loud at the top of his weak voice, but they would come back to him from the hills. Soon,he was tiring himself out and decided to take shelter under a nearby peepal. He took his seat under the shadows of the peepal and closed his eyes, recollecting his breath. After a short nap, he opened his eyes and looked around. There still seemed no movement around him. No vultures that would usually venture around his village gates, no pigeons who ruled the roofs of the community church, no sparrows who signalled time at dawn and dusk. He regained his posture and moved on. Tall banyans and peepals shouldered the left of the unmetalled road, and on his right were fields that shone fluorescent green. The cool breeze took the fatigue out of him, and he felt closer to reaching an inhabited area very soon. �The sun is dying, its time for dusk, the lighted bulbs on the sky, the moon has come up in all its glory, the clouds grumble and cry. Moulin sketches with bluish tinge painted on the sky, Goodbye o pleasant evening, Its time for you to die� He chanted an extract of an old village folk song that sustained his spirits, and walked ahead. Soon, he became a dot in the horizon for the peepal that sheltered him, as flashes of lightening and roars of thunders shook its firm offshoots, an overture for the impending downpour. The cloudburst carpeted his way into the green hills; now appearing dull black, for the light that rendered them green had faded away. He meandered his way through the giant forest trees, drops of rainwater dripping down his eyelashes, onto his rather long nose, and finally onto his lips. His ears were alert for any voices around, for he knew there could be ferocious wild cats in the jungle. He could recall an experience when he was seventeen, and was nearly killed by a wild boar on his way to the school. He had tripped on a rock and had fell down during the chase. The scream that he had let out then had scared the boar away, but the damage was done. (3) The climb was becoming rather steep now and every step cost him a huge toll of calories. Nevertheless, his curiosity pushed him forward. He couldn�t expect a road for moving uphill, for that had ended a few miles back, and what he could do most was to tramp on the tough forest grass and the tiny shrubs that stood along his way. Although the track was tough, it wasn�t all that dark. The moon was helping him move on from behind the thick clouds, and glided along with him in his night walk. �Soiled is the earth, murky is the sky, Tall wild trees shroud my way, Whither I go, I do not know, Still far to go for the coming day� He chanted the extract from the tribal ballad he had heard from the hills in his childhood. Those were nights when the dark and ominous looking tribal men would come close to the village settlement and steal goats and other members of the village poultry. No villager, including the sarpanch dared to go near them, for their arrows were poisoned, and their attack resolute and well formed. The thoughts in his mind were shaken for a moment when he saw a light a few metres ahead. That one did not seem to come from the sky. It seemed more or less to come from a single light source and appeared to glitter due to his rain stricken eyes. He felt resurged and walked at a faster pace, for this was the first signal of life he had seen since a few hours. His heart thumping hard, the wind hissing in his ears, his legs finding a new gush of blood As he grew closer to the light, he realized that it came from a small shack, a tiny mud edifice that appeared stable and firm in the thunderous rainfall. There was an open space surrounding the shack bordered by huge scary banyans that shaded the space from the showers. He looked around, and investigated the surroundings. �All flora and no fauna�. The next few steps he took were cautious and well judged, taking care to avoid the slightest noise to disturb the calm. The rain too had settled down for a slight drizzle, and except for the heavy drops that trickled down the leaves of the trees, the area was pretty much quiet. In a few minutes, he was in front of the shack. He peeked inside to get a better view. He could smell fire from within, and could perceive a nearly inaudible murmur that was intermittently disturbed by the sound of cracking twigs. The wind from inside the shack piloted a few flakes of ash, some of which took rest on his cheeks and hair. �The man inside must be keeping himself warm�, he thought to himself. As he stepped inside, he felt warm and safe. He quickly noticed the void. There was no one in the room. The air was lit red, and the smell of burning wood travelled up his nostrils. He moved up to the end of the room, and realized that there was a small door that lead to another. The door was of a mahogany built, and looked to have stood there for centuries altogether, and did not creak when he opened with the slowest of pace. He saw total darkness in the room, and not even the red flames in the other room would dare penetrate its air. His eyes moved around the vacuum, searching for any indication of life within. He did not want to speak or shout, for he thought it unbecoming for the serene milieu. He turned back. His stomach churned, his nerves went taut as he saw a huge old man right in front of him, holding a fire torch in his right hand. He had a heavy white beard underneath his thick lips. His bloodshot eyes showed no mercy, piercing into his opponent�s eyeballs, and looked as fiery and beaming as the fire of the torch he held. The old man looked him in his eye for long time, and moved back a bit. This comforted him a bit, and he let a heavy breath out in comfort. He led him to the main hall, where the fire was still burning. (4) �Are you on your way from the peepal?� The old man initiated the conversation, a sparkle lighting up his eyes. �Yes.� He said, his voice broken and disturbed after the long period of silence. �Many come here from the peepal. And many have come to me. I give them shelter and food. You can feel safe here�. He continued. His voice was enchanting, and echoed in my ears. It was harsh and tough, scented with handsome masculinity, but somewhere hidden in it was a softer voice of compassion. He felt the sigh of relief coming out through his breath, for here was a person who is the only person on earth who could help him at the moment, and as a matter of fact, has agreed to do so. The old man rose and disappeared into another adjoining room. Meanwhile he tried observing the room in greater detail. The walls of the room were adorned with murals which seemed to tell stories from times immemorial. There were paintings of a tribal hunter hounding a wild boar with a long and sharp spear in his hands. Another painting depicted a woman roasting a jungle fowl over a fire, flanked by scantily dressed men who were drinking in mirth. The old man did not take much time to return, his hands now full, with a rug in his left, and a bowl in his right. �You can call me �Khatafa��, he said in a low and husky voice and proceeded to sit beside me. �But no more�, Khatafa continued. �I dislike men asking too much questions. Most men who come here wish to know who I am and what I do in the midst of this jungle. I hope you wouldn�t go the same way.� He did not answer to that question. He was enjoying the hot soup that was offered to him, and didn�t seem to give too much attention to Khatafa�s statements. But Khatafa continued. �I know not who you are. But I will call you �Tabor�. That�s the name by which I address all my guests. � This time, he looked up, his eyes showing signs of curiosity. He had finished the welcome food and kept it down on the mud floor. �Where am I ?�, he questioned with an unnoticed authority in his voice. �In my house, with me enjoying a bowl of soup �, khatafa responded, a thundering laughter escaping his lips. �Tabor, you need to tell me where you came from; and who you are. I will take over from where you stop.�, he continued, grinning. He tried to recollect what had happened. He knew he had travelled many a mile to reach here. He could remember the peepal tree with ease . He could remember the hills, the fields and the banyans. His eyes grew wide in surprise as he realised that there was a big vacuum before that. His eyebrows twitched, his throat went dry as he realized that the soup had done its effect on him. He looked down at the floor in awe and horror. �Tabor, Be not lost in thoughts. You have left behind your worries and bad health. But if you really want to know who you are; well I can give you some exciting news�, Khatafa whispered in his ears. Tabor looked up and right into his eyes. He could not stare for long, for he knew he was no match for the old man, in words or action. Khatafa stood up slowly and went to the door of the shack. Tabor followed his gaze. He watched the dark outside of the shack; rains once again pelting down onto the open space outside. Khatafa was stretching his hands to the outside taking care not to get wet, and came back with a circular object in his hands, covered by a cloth heavily soaked in the merciless rain. While he settled down again on the floor, he uncovered the object. It was pristine, and shone like a star that had come too close to the ground. It was indeed a mirror; and a really shining one. The light that it reflected was too much a take for Tabor, and he turned his face away in displeasure. Khatafa roared in laughter yet again, watching his guest with utmost interest. �See what I have got for you�, he said. �Would you believe this?� he said, rather with a softer smile. Tabor hesitated. He was so perplexed by the sudden change of events. He felt his memory all jumbled up, a puzzle for which he had no solutions to offer. He knew bits and pieces of his past, with no matching bridges in between. But he knew he was there, and he would be there. (5) With trembling hands, Tabor took the object in his hands and stared into it. His vision was blurred by the torrent of tears that escaped down his cheeks, but beneath all of them, he saw something that looked very interesting and shocking indeed. It was himself he saw in it. He was sure. There was nothing else. But no filthy beard had he, healthy and red were his cheeks, and tender line of hair ran under his nose. It was a younger He. It was then that he noticed how much he had changed. His arms were as healthy as a young village farmer, his chest broad and welcoming. He had transformed into his former self- a healthy young man. �I cant believe this!�, Tabor exclaimed, his mouth gaped open, a drop of saliva trickling down his chin. �Seeing is believing�, Khatafa said, resting his hands on the �new� young man�s shoulders. �Dear Tabor, trust me but it isn�t a miracle. You were as young as you were when you first stepped into my shack. Your memory is not muddled up. You remember your past. But they no longer belong to you. They are but the chapter of a scary nightmare which just came to an end.� �Let me explain this�, Khatafa continued. �When you first set foot on this earth, the midwife who watched you squeeze out of your mother�s womb noted the time you came in to this wonderful world. When you were a baby, your loving mother nurtured you thrice a day with the milk from her breasts at regular intervals. You were admitted to school, and you were asked to come on time. You had been allotted a time for lunch, time for play, time for dinner, time for sleep. You took up farming, and you waited for the time when the monsoons would come. You Worked overtime when the times were bad and the harvests poor.� Time was such an overwhelming entity, which had eaten into your brain; made you feel stressed and took a heavy toll of health from you. You used no hookah, nor the spirits from the molasses, but at an age when men were still knee deep in the paddy fields, you became bed ridden, left for the flies and the parasites to consume.� Remember that your past was a complex sequence of events. Time was the only factor that helped make sense out of things. But do you think you need to depend on an entity that influenced your destiny in the way it wishes to? For Time was the evil curse on human race, the Pandora�s box that made them do things they never should, or never wanted to. � Tabor was overwhelmed by this explanation. He was never a person who could think so different. He had never thought of a solution like this. He had countered issues and problems that hurt him whenever they came, with courage and determination. While he kept his quiet, Khatafa continued. �The world out there does not need you anymore, Tabor. It is darker out there than it is here. You have come through the path from the peepal, climbed up the hills, and wandered through the jungle in the most non-deterministic of fashion, but finally you ended up meeting me, like thousands of others did, for aeons �. Tabor felt a shiver down his spine as he heard the old man�s lecture. He knew that the man before him was no ordinary being .His words were still reverberating in his ears. �Tabor, are you listening to me?�, Khatafa enquired to him. He was lost in thought. In fact, he was trying to justify the old man�s points; and it occurred to him that he had no arguments to counter him. �You are right�, Tabor commented. �But what am I supposed to do?� he enquired, his voice overflowing with concern and apprehension. Khatafa smiled. He knew this question. He knew the answer as well. He had been answering the same question for ages, and had his reply, which went like this. �Tabor, I will give you a couple of options to choose from. You can take my word that I would not force you in any manner whatsoever to make your decision match my wish. You also have the freedom to choose when you would like to give me an answer. I do not restrict you within the boundaries of time. You could either go back to the peepal tree, from where you came into this world, and you�d forget about me, summed up with whatever you experienced in this world. You will restore your mind and body to suit your former self and continue living for more time. May you live well, and become healthier by the day. Another option I offer you is to join me, and forget the past. You shall not know who you were, for you shall cease to be what you were, and become a part of a broader world where time or space do not become parameters for emotions, whatever their nature be. Finally emotions by themselves will cease to exist, when you reach the stage called non-existance, the culmination of worldly pleasures and pressures, and the beginning of wisdom and tranquil. This is the state called Nirvana, and this is one decision you will never regret.� Tabor lied on his back, his hands beneath his head. His young mind vacillated between the options. The current frame of time marked him a young man. But he knew that if he goes back, its an entirely different story. �What would I get if I go back?�, he thought to himself. �There is no one out there who could help me out; no one to take care of my health. There is the seikosha clock that reminds me of the moving time every hour � a slow poison that tells me that with every ding-dong, I was a step closer to death, the final truth. But then, I am in control of my destiny. If I go back, I could start it all over. I could ensure my health with whatever little I can do, and work on whatever I can. Maybe if God is kind, I shall become a healthy farmer again.� He struggled deciding between the Devil and the Charybdis. But Tabor could never think much about anything. He was just another human being, His thoughts had natural boundaries. He knew he could only think from within those limits. That would have been the reason he did not need to think much about the second option. Nor did he take aeons to tell Khatafa his decision. (6) The efforts had commenced the early morning. A big crowd had assembled outside his shattered house. Rain was still pouring down in the early hours of the morning, and the light was dim. But the people who had queued at the gates did not pay much attention. Why shouldn�t they? The Grand Old Man of the village was dead. Shouldn�t they pay their respects? Soil and dirt stamped dark brown footmarks into the house from the slippers of the social helpers who had come to his room, trying to shift him from the spring bed onto a stretcher they had arranged from a nearby Government hospital. His body would later be cremated at the village crematorium, beside the village leaders who had passed away before he did. They found it easy to move him around , for he was indeed thin, but he wouldn�t unfold his palms. For between them, was a crushed peepal leaf he has tightly holding to. Perhaps, he wasn�t given a choice.
Copyright © 2002 Ramkumar Menon |