Despite the harshness of the cold, waterless, windy winter,
the old well by the side of the house is teeming with life. The red stone
blocks lining the well have disappeared behind the foliage of Ferns, Tulsi
plants and miniature fig trees adorning the wall of the ancient kingdom. The
water in the darkness below has shadows, big and small, some moving about in
circles, and some others standing still. The nest of a humming bird hangs by
the longest branch of a communist-pacha plant, reaching down menacingly to the darkness
below with the hungry monsters circling in the shadows of the watery grave, waiting
for the flesh of the young birds if they dare so venture out of their home of
dead leaves and twigs. The tiny dark green bird flying in and out of the well would
have been invisible, if not for its shiny feathers, which caught the sunlight
and shimmered apologetically. Alas, the eyes of a mate are not the only ones it
catches.
From a
distance, the sound of people talking, in a language unknown, yet somehow
familiar, approaches. It is the second time in half a century that a house is
being built on this soil. The last one opened the doors to our family in 1977.
And these people here, now, are a few of the many, whose hands have sculpted
this near-complete structure with rocks, sand, steel and cement. They are from
another land, the land of a majestic beast, the Bengal Tiger.
The first time we saw them, no
one in our family trusted them. To us, and the people in our village, they were
foreigners, leaves of a distant tree that had flown into our esoteric garden. Only
a few of them knew Hindi, the rest were all well versed Bengalis. None of them knew
English. In our village all of us spoke Malayalam, some of us knew English,
fewer knew Hindi, and none knew Bengali. So we stood there speaking in a broken
language, which if someone had tried, would have probably been traced back to
the time of Aryan invasion. But somehow, everyone involved understood
everything required. There were no pleasantries. We were barely able to
communicate the matter, which in itself, was a miracle.
Soon they began their work. Sometimes,
people gathered nearby, watching them work, whispering amongst themselves. This
was probably the first time that Northern workers were engaged in the village. Nobody
knew what to make of them. Their dedication to work was exceedingly evident. By
the time I woke up, and the first of the squirrels raised the alarms, they had
finished the first instalment of the day’s work. They barely rested, all they
wanted was to finish the work quickly, get the money and move on to the next
project, which was quite alright with us. As the onlookers stood whispering, they
too had their private jokes, which they needn’t whisper, for they realised that
Bengali was encoded enough for this village. All of them had peculiar names.
Nimay, was one that caught my attention. Absolutely no idea what it means. Gradually,
everyone learned to accept their presence. A few of the more curious ones among
us, used signs to converse with them, and both parties laughed about this unusual
experience. Some like my father, began speaking reasonable Hindi, which being
the national language, I believe sleeps in every one of us, somewhere, somehow.
What I don’t like about them is
that they chase away dogs and throw stones at them. Maybe they got that habit
from watching my father. But what’s different is that, my father has a lousy
aim while they have anything but. Everyone is, in some ways similar to their
father, and in other ways, completely different. This is one of those ways in
which I’m completely different. I cannot hurt animals. Maybe it’s because as a
child, a teacher had told us once, that there were monks who would watch every
step ahead of them as they walked, for insects, so that they may not take their
lives. Or maybe it was because I had grown up mostly alone, watching earthworms
in the rainwater, playing with cats in the garden, talking to crows on the
rooftops, the list goes on, leaving me strangely thinking of them as my friends.
I have taken lives of animals before. Once I dissected a small frog alive. I’ve
killed butterflies, grasshoppers and ants. A few times I killed mice with a
stick, one of which was a gruesome murder which I’m sure I’ll pay for (I don’t
mind paying for mistakes). I still have the image of the mouse rolling over
after a second hit to the head, with a frail scream that went mostly unheard.
It’s a very disturbing image that I have, to think that I was a seven year old
killer. I do kill mosquitoes, which I justify by the fact that they kill the
RBC’s that so loyally transport my oxygen molecules. So even though I’m
conflicted about it, I don’t have much regret. If they stopped biting me and
drinking my blood, I would gladly stop killing them. Maybe in a way I’m helping
them achieve that. If enough mosquitoes are killed off, probably, mosquitoes
that don’t need blood will arise through natural (or as in this case, artificial)
selection. A happy outcome for the race of mosquitoes, don’t you think?
Every
action that any person does has its reasons. As much as I want it to be real, I
don’t think there’s a right and wrong. If someone like me, with my below
average, in fact mostly stupid understanding, can forgive people who act
against my ideals, think of what the creator with his vast, but definitely
finite understanding of the universe might make of our meagre sins. Think of
ants. When we watch one ant kill another, what do we feel? A trace of sadness,
so close to nothing, that it’s barely perceptible. When the same ant carries a
wounded comrade back to the ant hill, what do you feel? A trace of happiness? Don’t you think that when we understand the workings of a concept completely,
it ceases to appeal to our senses? And then, we are given a chance to perceive
it in a detached light. Why does love and hate fade away? In both instances, we
learn the object in question with vigour at first and then slowly, as the
object reveals itself to us, we find ourselves observing it in a new light,
without judging. There are many things I don’t understand. I want thinkers to
arise, people who would break down everything our ancestors told us, scrutinize them in the newest light of science or philosophy, and discard without second thoughts, those ideas that proved useless and wrong, and
reinforced the ones, that were without doubt, truths. But it’s good that people
have a sense of right and wrong. Think of how much chaos would prevail in our
world if they thought otherwise? We are not ready for such radical thoughts.
But I trust in the existence of everything. There is a purpose for it all. Government
laws, moral values, religious teachings, even parents, everything that keeps us
from exploring the darkness of the unknown will keep us safe until a time
comes, when we no longer need them, to be safe, to explore. A stable
civilisation will arise, a great chapter in the story of time which had an
unsure beginning and if allowed, a triumphant end. Everything that has a
beginning must have an end. But we mustn’t end before our purpose is fulfilled
and for that we must use everything at hand to keep our fellow beings safe.
Father had
once described me the monsoons of his childhood. Everything about it was green,
the wavy paddy fields, the tree covered mountains, the moss coated rocks, the
flowing water plants, everything. When it rained in those days, the wells would
overflow and water would be everywhere. Plots became rivers and later, ponds,
with fishes, some huge enough to be a decent dinner, by itself. Songs of
peacocks began the morning rains and howls of foxes ended those of the night.
It must have been extraordinarily gratifying to have lived in such a time as
that. Sometimes I envy time. To be able to witness everything that happens from
the beginning to the end, what I would not give to have that.
People, who lived much of their
lives in the lap of nature, don’t seem to truly appreciate such things, the
beautiful creatures of the wild, untamed, and how lucky we are to be human, to
be able to dream, and then to wander in the confines of those dreams for hours,
and then beyond, might be as rare a gift, as life itself is in the universe. As
I cross the boundary back and forth between city and village, I feel like I’ve
been given a chance to live two lives, one, in each of these worlds.
I remember feeding biscuits to a
tiny puppy at midnight in Kesavadasapram (Don’t ask me how I got there, that’s
another long story). It had huge, grieving eyes, protruding ribs and a broken
leg. He followed me back to Plamoodu, a 45 min walk through the deserted roads.
I tried to make him stay at the place where he belonged, but he just kept
following me. It was only when the resident dogs of Plamoodu came to view, that
he backed away. Dogs are loyal creatures. They are hard wired for it, rendering
them incapable of anything else. Every dog is capable of loving, if given a
chance. It’s the same with every living thing. Understanding the creature is the
first thing. You can’t expect a lizard or a butterfly to love you back no
matter how much you wished for it. But that mustn’t stop you from caring for those
creatures. Love is about giving and hoping something comes back, right?
Everyone
the Bengalis loved, were left behind in their villages. How agonizingly painful
their lives must be, to be so far away from their mothers, sisters, wives,
lovers and daughters, working relentlessly without any hope of seeing them in
the near future. But maybe in a way, that gives them the strength to push
themselves beyond the normal bounds of human potential. To have the thing that
you love the most beyond your reach, gives you this undying passion, this
unquenchable thirst, which drives you mad and leaves you with no choice but to dedicate
everything you have, to the one thing that you are good at, just so, that you
can feel a slight breeze of satisfaction, even if it means nothing, unless you
have that person in your arms, and then maybe, you could fade away without complaining.
Their work is almost complete. As
I set off for the city, leaving my home behind, two of them come out to send me
off. Maybe this island that they are on, has brought them close to our family. Father
is always with them, talking and laughing. At this moment they have a place in
my life. But when I drive away from them, what I know for sure is that I may
never see them again. They know it as well. And so, we share this moment, a
moment to relish a lifetime, a moment in silence to settle this memory into the
archives of our lives. May the fishes from the overflowing wells, find their
way to the rivers.
