On the solitary trail

 

The green, shimmering, sashaying gown of mother earth fluttering to monsoon winds on my solitary trail. The rain-lulled path is indeed a solitary trail now. The thin ribbon of solace and verdant solitude is clad in grasses, bushes and reeds like a shy countryside lass.

A lovely musty solitary feel to the fern-shadowed trail. An emerald hush layered over it. You just inhale musty silence and sweating peace here. And each slow step on this wild-woven passage counting as meditation.

I quietly embrace this solitudinal offer from the moss-breathing earth and walk in acceptance and full humility, paying homage to these moments. Mother nature’s green-drowned footsteps on the monsoon-softened ground echoing in the form of an overgrown silence.

August rains have been far more in intensity and volume than the normal mark for the month. The solitary trail is overgrown with grasses, reeds, weeds and shrubs. One has to walk very cautiously at each step on the rain-scripted earth to avoid naughty snakes slithering in the grass-swallowed track.

It indeed is a solitary trail, almost untrodden green—with one exception, a sole presence (apart from me) in this calmly breathing wilderness and leaf-slick solitude. A lone man softly moving through this jungle-leaning corridor. A pilgrim of his own kind on the thicketed way. A little interjection in the otherwise undisturbed rain-held remoteness on this verdure-bound way.

He is rubbing hemp leaves on his palms to collect the black soot that will turn to weed for filling his beedis. Mother nature has been kind to him. There are long rows of wild hemp plants on both sides of the mist-clasped trail. He will collect a few beedis worth of weed on his palms.

The man isn’t in disharmony with the living quietude of the path. He is a silent, peaceful man, gently working on the leaves. His lean figure emanating laid-back and easygoing air. His persona almost earth-attuned. He is not overcautious like most of the so-called teetotalers who don’t touch meat, wine, drugs and weeds. But they carry their own nasha of power, influence, wealth and politicking. This silent man appears to be carrying an unruffled soul. With an affably detached self, he readily agrees to get videoed and photographed, just making a little request to not put it on ‘net-pet’ as he puts it.

Weed inhalers are generally mellow-hearted laidback people, not harming mother earth with overblown worldly aspirations like the most of us do. Yes, they harm their own interests and that of their families. But they aren’t over-spirited participants in the chaos that is being splashed around by the so-called sensible gentry.

The man is very soft-spoken and grounded in simplicity. He seems to be quietly amused by my silly eagerness to take his pictures and make his video while he peacefully goes rubbing the hemp leaves on his palms.  

I don’t support and encourage weed smoking. But these people are cool and contended in their own laid-back ways. Mother earth is burdened with over-doers, so such paused personalities can be digested to a little extent provided they keep it balanced with their duties to themselves and their families.

It would be an icing on the cake if they decide not to get married because marriage is a big responsibility and if you get yoked into the matrimonial cart, you ought to fulfill all responsibilities full time instead of getting into a relaxed trance through substances like weed. Marriage plus weed smoking don’t go together. Marriage means full-spirited action to be a committed provider for one’s family. Weed smoking means walking in a by-lane where those who shirk responsibilities try to escape to a different dimension of life which is not compatible with the ways and means of the normal society.

I leave him collecting the fragments of his peace and move on. Mother earth has more tales to tell through visuals, sights, smells and happenings on the path.

Sarus cranes are a symbol of lifelong fidelity, a winged constancy in their sacred companionship. In a world where real love is getting pushed into the corner each passing second, the sight of the enduring union and devoted pairing of a crane couple in lush green is nothing short of an auspicious sign. It’s a shy, grace-bound couple not too eager for the public display of their rituals of togetherness and mateship. They just kept walking, like they fly through their life with monogamous grace, and don’t allow the human-bird gap to be decreased by my curious steps. They don’t fly away at least and that’s their gift to this walker on the solitary trail. They give me enough sight of the quite foreverness and the unbroken duet of their life-song by just walking through the greenery.

There is this friendly drongo. She isn’t camera shy and allows photo shoot from close quarters. Definitely a confident, good-looking girl of the drongo world.

I approach a sad looking puddle of water on the way. This is what remains of the last natural wetland in the countryside around my village. Earlier it was a vast swamp covering many acres that would attract thousands of ducks and other migratory birds during the monsoon and winters. Now it’s just a tiny puddle with a few moorhens, ducks and a couple of kingfishers peeking into its sad waters from the wires nearby.

As I walk further on and reach a lonely hut, it further saddens me. The hut seems abandoned and is already slightly out of order. Kaka maharaj left his hut. He got angry about something and left this hut for a new place. This hut hosted him for more than two decades on his path of spirituality in the countryside. The tiny hut is now getting mixed with nature as grasses and shrubs grow with full freedom around it.

The hut is now packed with a different kind of action, a worldly one instead of the spiritual sojourn. The overhanging branches of a tree canopying the hut are now teeming with the handiwork of weaverbird boys to invite birdie girls to have a look and if they like it accept the suitor and settle for domestic life for the season. Some romeos have put great effort in elongating the grassy foyer to a great length. It’s always a fight for the most beautiful girl through most impressive means of wooing.

The mountains come to my solitary trail in the form of river sands. The Himalayan slopes are washed away by the rain-fed angry rivers and the mountain’s fragmented self arrives here in the form of canal sand. You can feel the essence of Himalayas in this sand. Take a fistful and smell. Yes, it’s that typical Himalayan smell.

My dear friend, the silk cotton tree, is happy at last. Couple of years back the sand mafia had scraped too much earth from around its trunk cutting even the main lateral roots. It turned sad and stood with its pale leaves. No fresh shoot, no flowers for two years. No smiles. Now the monsoon has been more than normal this season. The tree wears a new green suit like a handsome man freshly in love. So happy to see and meet him. I shake hands with him. I’m sure he will smile this season with his luscious red flowers.