Remembering a winter walk

 

You cannot be more welcoming than to the sun that shines brightly on a winter noon after dispelling the frigid fog that has eaten away the earlier part of the day. I’m walking with solitary musings on the sunlit trail across the still surviving thin ribbon of wilderness running along the thirty feet wide space between the canals. This and the still narrower lines of wilderness running along the outer embankments of the canals provide solace and succor—a sort of last refuge to some reptiles, birds and a solitary journeyman like me in the area.

A majestic cobra has sprawled itself in the open for sunbathing. Is it the same that had shed its slough a month back. I had found the seven-feet long snake skin completely intact from the tip of its tongue to the end of its tail. I keep it coiled up like a real snake in my library among my books. In case there is some book thief, he will run away after seeing a snake among the books.

I arrive at a bridge and take a narrow road running through the farmlands. There are mushroom farms. A big poultry farm is buzzing with plenteous cacophony of cocks and hens sending out dinning chimes of mortality and suffering. The stench of poultry feed and bird drops overpowers any sense of pity.

The yellow of mustard and the green of wheat show mankind’s strength and grasp over nature. The vehicles rattle past and the drivers find someone still walking slowly a misfit, or even a lunatic because only they seem to walk along the roads these days. Human legs may turn extinct over the coming centuries.

I reach the brand new multiple-lane expressway authoritatively cutting across the farmlands around my village. It’s all about more and more speed. The passing vehicles rattle your bones with the windstorms raised by their speed. The tyres raise a nefarious noise to keep you scared all the time. This is the same dusty little potholed road where we had seen bicycles, buggies and carts in our childhood.

There is a little puddle of water among the bunch-grass and shrubbery by the road. A coot, a moorhen and a lapwing still hold the post for the birdies. Further on, a larger pond is lucky enough to survive. There is algae on the surface. The black catfishes are stoically floating on the surface. They look awestruck and surprised with their mouths wide open. They are actually allowing the algae to enter their mouth, just like whales open their mouths while passing through the shoals of smaller fish. I would call it peaceful hunting.

The bush-covered waste ground where we used to roll and play throughout the day is buried under the cement, asphalt and mortar of the swanky new expressway as it loops around the village pond. The village pond has more water than ever but not a single water bird. There used to be thousands of water birds in it during our childhood.  Now it’s tamed under pisciculture by a farmer who has taken it on lease from the local body.

The banyan on the mound is scarred. The mound on which it stands has been chopped from all sides to create more water space to rear fish. Its strong, thick roots are exposed like opened innards at the water margins. The majestic tree is holding its world through three or four stumps, made of its hanging roots that have dug into the earth. The tree seems scared of a fall and looks to save itself by placing its hands on the ground as more and more roots are exposed to rear a few more kilos of fish. Aren’t we actually eating into our own innards?