Zara had sheltered herself under the banyan tree for several nights, her hair growing longer, not knowing which way to head. She never expected to figure her way out of the jungle as long as the elephant was around. But now, she was on her own, lost and lonely, overcome by grief ever since Elly went down under, sinking in the pond.
Yes, the west wind always came around whenever Zara needed her the most, but she could certainly not ride the wind to the city, that lay far away to the west, as she had surfed the water, from the glacier’s tongue to the riverbank 276 full moons ago.
True, the giant turtle was always around at hand, but Zara never imagined that she could ride him to the city. So, she stayed under the banyan, taking in the marvels of the forest, chatting up its inhabitants, figuring out whom to count on to show her the way out.
And the moon waxed and waned, and the seasons passed by, returning at regular intervals. And the summer heat made way for torrential rains, the rains made way for mellow autumn that made way for mild winter, which, in turn, made way for severe cold, and severe cold made way for bright spring—when the trees dressed up in fresh green coats—and the forest came alive in the shades of rainbow pastels of orange and green and violet and yellow flowers. And the birds came back singing to the forest after their winter recess. And the pleasant sunshine poured down to the forest floor once more where dead leaves shed by the trees in winter rustled under the trample of Zara’s feet and those of other animals.
And as with most other creatures, the forest became home to Zara as she wandered around from tree to tree, chatting up the animals and birds.
Still, the lure of the city remained as Zara wondered if she would ever find her way out when, one bright morning, the koel sang:
You are weak, he is strong,
Every friendship has a purpose.
Don’t fall in love . . .
‘Don’t fall in love . . . in love . . . in love . . .’ the other birds joined in.
‘In love . . . in love . . . in love,’ Zara, too, joined them.
‘Don’t fall in love . . .’ the koel sang.
‘You are weak, he is strong,
Is strong . . . is strong . . . is strong,’ the other birds sang.
‘Every friendship has a purpose . . . a purpose . . . a purpose,’ Zara joined the chorus.
And the west wind blew in, sweeping the forest floor, driving the dry leaves around from here to there and from there to here.
‘Retain your freedom, Zaru,’ the west wind said. Don’t rest your mind on the objects around . . . on the body . . . on the person. Unshackle yourself, Zaru, lose your sense of the body.’
‘Come clear,’ Zara told the west wind, raising her voice above the din created by the rustling of leaves on the forest floor.
‘Look at the trees, Zaru, they never mourn the loss of their dead leaves, they just let them fall. Never mourn the loss of the body, object, or person, but take good care of all things while they last. Have fun, Zaru, but never possess whateva you consider your own.’
Zara heard out the west wind and looked up at the branches to catch a glimpse of the koel. When she couldn’t find her, she turned to the west wind, and asked, ‘Windy, where’s the koel gone? She sings so well. And she’s foreva free. I can sense that in her voice.’
‘Yes, she’s entirely free, Zaru. And that freedom gives her such a lovely voice. If you hear them well, Zaru, no two birds in the forest sing the same. Each has her distinct voice. And yet, they all sing well because they all are free.’
‘Not all the birds, Windy. Certainly not the peacock. It looks so good, but it’s got a lousy voice, kaw . . . kaw . . . kaw,’ Zara said, strutting about like a peacock,
‘That’s because the peacock is not free, Zaru. He’s trapped in the image of his own beauty to be really free.’
‘So, how does one get free, Windy?’ Zara asked.
‘Aha! You really wish to know?’ the west wind asked back.
‘Really!’ said Zara.
‘Well, well, well, the secret to the freedom is not to be a scatterbrain. Freedom demands a lot of patience and focus. The secret to freedom, Zaru, is to resolve to be free. The secret to freedom, Zaru, is to be able to break the rule book only when the situation so demands. Break the rule, Zaru, to be free. And don’t get affected by it. That’s the secret to freedom.’
‘I see, Windy, the secret to freedom lies in the chance you take,’ Zara said.
‘That’s more like it, Zaru,’ the west wind came back. ‘The seeker is forever in search of an opportunity. Sadly, when that opportunity comes knocking, most don’t pick it up.’
‘And how does one really pick up a chance?’ Zara asked the west wind.
‘Just empty yourself within. Never be neither here nor there. Be either here or there. Be either in the city or the forest. Don’t keep standing at the crossroads foreva. That, Zaru, is the essence of being. So, give yourself a push to pick up your chance. And soon, you’ll be outside the forest.’
‘Thank you, Windy,’ Zara said. She took one last long look at the pond where the elephant had gone down. And finally, blowing a thank you kiss to the banyan, Zara embarked on her arduous journey beyond.
The west wind smiled, hugged Zara, and leading her out through the thicket, said, ‘Come, I’ll join you some distance. Don’t be too careful, Zara, but don’t be too careless either. The time has come for you to leave the forest and head for the city, don’t change your belief this time.’
Zara stretched out her hand in the direction of the wind, as if holding her hand out to her to be led out of the undergrowth, as she cleared her path with her other arm, her smile, finally back on her face.
Looking at her, the west wind said, ‘That’s good. You look cheerful again. Practice equanimity, Zaru, and don’t harbour a doubt.’
In a moment, Zara was enveloped by the jungle.