An evening on my solitary trail

 

We have been so well primed for apathy and moral degradation that anything contrary to the above seems off-the-cuff-remark, an inopportune adventure. Mother earth looks imploringly while it gets pestered with more smoke and fire. Uncomely, unsightly behavior. Perilous phantasmagoria. Hideous pomposities. A gnashing, unvarying sarcasm. Smutty, fetid, filthy, unwholesome plot. Avaricious. Putrescence.

Bombs, fire and smoke in the name of nationhood; industrial smoke in the name of inimical, coarse industrialism; more smoke in the name of lisping, detestable festivities; smoke arising with derision from farm fires. Gibberish, egotistic, debased haze. The metallic haze spreading like a colossal giantess. A roguish varnish that eats the colors of evenings. The evening colors melting in subservience.

A sluggard and idle saunterer, I’m walking witnessing this heartrending chastisement of mother nature by Her own child. There is swarming joy in adding more smoke to the poisoned air. The new world leader, Trump, doesn’t believe in climate cause. More smoke in the middle east; more bombs and explosions in Ukraine; more smog born of farm fires; more marriage celebration firecrackers gleaming in the maelstrom of smoke.

I’m walking on my solitary trail between the canals holding a crooked staff, a knotted and thorny stick, smoky exhausts hitting my eyes, nose, lungs with suffocating digression. The smoked air impregnated with the smog of hate and apathy. I squint and spot a flock of goats in the smoky distance on the trail. An insurmountable enormity of survival among beaten brambles and bushes.

The goats move slowly nibbling at the beaten grass. The shepherds are two gouty old men bravely holding their crooked baton of life in the gloomy, sooty parody. They are in their seventies, move with a monkish disposition, carrying decades of depositories on their soiled clothes in the form of poverty and low social status.

One is at the front of the herd, the other (still older) manning the back end. There are lots of baby goats and they gallop with childish verve, which seems so mismatching with the two old goatherds. But these little playful ones can’t escape on the sides because of the canals. It makes it possible for the old shepherds to manage the herd at this age. The slower their steps, the more time the goats get in nibbling the grass. In between they can take sips of water from the canals on the sides.

The front herder raises his hand in greeting as I approach them. We raise hands exactly at the same moment. I had seen him a year back. He has aged quite significantly since then. His eyesight has further deteriorated. He mistakes me for a farmer who has a little plot of land by the canal. The farmer is a bachelor and stays with his old mother. He was once drinking by the canal and invited them to share drinks. They chatted for a long time once relaxed by the cheap liquor. Such solemn reminiscences! I can feel the traces of appreciation in his eyes for that farmer.

The smoky gaieties have been grafted on the evening colors. It’s an early twilight. They are confused about time. They have to walk another kilometer to reach their village. He asks what time it is. ‘It’s ten minutes to five,’ I tell him.

Smoke has advanced the twilight by more than an hour. We know the obvious and ignore the listless fact. Instead he boosts his spirits by an enlivening talk about the farmer with whom they shared drinks. We talk about the economy of goat-herding, the sadness of vanishing grass and their sun-setting life story.

A human touch, acknowledging a fellow life’s existence with respect. ‘Well, it has been a good time-spending activity at least,’ the herder says about their occupation. ‘It’s an honest, honorable job,’ I reply. It brings light to his old feeble eyes.

The older herder doesn’t speak much but he smiles a lot, the wrinkles coming to life with wisdom. ‘What will we take with us?! It’s just greetings and smiles. Who knows whether we meet again or not! So it’s better to greet each other with a smile!’ he smiles again. My smoked self is relieved. I watch them slowly melting into the metallic haze on the trail. I pray that we meet again even if it’s on such a smoggy evening next winter because human life and smiles are precious despite all the hate and anger in the world.