Early in the morning, as the sun rose in the eastern sky, painting the canvas overhead in shades of pink and blue, Zara stood at the edge of the forest, facing a vast mustard field to the west, blanketed by tiny yellow flowers crowning slender green stalks, beyond which flowed the river at a distance in a giant muddy swell of a curve, hugging the field in her gentle sweep, its far bank flanked by a wide glass, steel- and sandstone-clad structure fronting the city of Zara’s imagination.
The building basked in the pale-pink reflection of dawn under the great dark void higher up that, in turn, was pierced by the white marble pyramid atop the black granite skyscraper, rising behind the sandstone building, to merge into the light-blue sky enclosing the forest behind Zara in a broad arc.
Zara waved a silent goodbye to the forest. The koel sang in the deep, ‘Cooh . . . cooh!’
Zara watched nature’s glory unfolding in marvellous rapture, in 360-degree loop from her toe forward, then rising from the horizon as she stood erect, in a trance, her arms resting at her waist, her hips drawn in, her chest drawn out. And she drew in a deep breath, drowning her senses in the breeze made fragrant by the scent of the dry earth beneath her feet.
‘Just observe, Zaru, soak in the beauty of the moment to which you now belong, that’s knowledge,’ the west wind whispered, caressing her face, hugging Zara tight, and planting a soft moist kiss on her cheek.
Zara shut her eyes, stood silently, listening.
And then, she said in a husky voice, ‘The forest is gone.’
‘The forest is still there where it was, Zaru,’ the west wind retorted, ‘it’s you who has left the forest behind to reach your destination. It had nothing to do with you.’
And the west wind rose to the sky.
‘Go, make yourself, Zaru,’ she said, ‘but be careful not to make others. The thirsty shall seek their own wells of wisdom.’
‘I get it. So, how do I make myself from now on?’ shouted Zara, looking skywards.
‘It’s easy, darling,’ the west wind said, turning her face to the ground where Zara stood. ‘Let me tell you the dos and don’ts of being.’
‘To be myself?’ Zara asked.
‘Yes,’ said the west wind. ‘Don’t seek advice in place of practice. Don’t seek company in place of solitude. Don’t seek to construct in the midst of destruction. Seek not when it’s time to give up.’
‘Practice to walk alone and deconstruct the labyrinth of your mind in order to rid yourself of fear,’ interrupted Zara.
‘Yes, well said, Zaru. That’s how you will reach your destination,’ the west wind said, rising higher and higher.
Zara waved at the west wind . . . reflecting and thinking.
Thinking!
And she broke into a verse:
High hopes, desperate moments,
Excruciating effort.
The destination far too distant:
A lofty wonder,
Towering above all else
In grand eloquence.
Foreboding, majestic, dark, dominating.
Surveying the creatures below.
Out of the reach of the ordinary,
Yet, captivating
The explorer’s imagination,
I wish I could climb!
Hazardous, unscalable peak,
Bewildering!
But, not quite insurmountable.
I’m on the long, narrow path to greatness,
The weak of heart
Curiously milling around . . .
Letting the world know . . .
The journeyman’s set his course
In quest for everlasting glory,
Trekking alone through
The dark and dangerous
Bends of the mind.
Steep narrow stairway,
Slippery landings, dark passageways,
And suddenly, a monstrous abyss
Interrupting the path.
A shrill cry piercing the ear . . .
I wish to run back to where I belong.
And then, there’s stillness
Quiet!
The summit right ahead,
Standing proud,
Still unconquered.
But now, I know . . .
I have arrived!
Calmness manifest,
That’s I.
Countless arms rising high:
‘Om Shanti!’
In unbounded joy, I find completion.