Sibling revelry

It is quite a coincidence that Pachelbel's Canon begins the moment I start to write. This is the first time. The clouds, which were white fluffs with tinges of pink from the rays of the rising sun behind the hills in the east have flattened out like torn cloth, thin and wispy. The river is like a slow moving gravy, something that might be served in bowls in jail. The first rays of the direct sun are yet to arrive in this little valley but eastern faces of the hills are glowing with anticipation.

'Leaving Delhi', if that was a play, ended abruptly, with a sudden flourish and a hurriedly falling curtain. The last minute pressures were defeated by the limitations of time. I mailed my status before closing the lid of the godforsaken laptop with force. Needless to say, we were on the edge of our schedule and managed to locate the bus-stop at Janpath just in time. The bus however decided to keep me waiting and left 45 minutes late.

Despite how I may convince myself about how safe or polite Delhi is, I fear, I am inept against its guile. So when the conductor takes my ticket away and asks if I am willing to relocate to another seat, I take it with a pinch of salt. But all proceeds without difficulty and by the time we leave, the sun is a flawless ball, spilling bucketfuls of yellow onto the dusk sky, the glass, the concrete and the faces. Suddenly I am aware, yet again, of the miracle that a sunset is, and I look into the faces of commuters on the road and wonder if they are too. I see in them, what I see in the everyday, a preoccupation with the mundane. I switch my music on, and everything changes colour, even street hawkers shuffling their wares.

After calls from family, my friends call to wish me well and I am touched by their gesture. By nightfall, it is an irregular opening and closing of eyelids that punctuate the journey. But by the time, the eyes open almost permanently, the hills are around. Pale blue waves awaiting the day, and dim lights blinking through the fog meet my eyes. We are in the hills, but there is congestion. The traffic is at a halt. I watch a pair of branches doing a tango against a gradually filling up sky. I resist the crashing wave of sleep to watch the path I might not get a chance to, later. But sadly, there is far too much litter around for it to be inspiring. There are far too many people too, hill-slopes are crowded with houses bunched together. We are still at low altitudes.

Reaching the camp, I meet the team, few of them are travelling in a group and quite a few like me, travelling as individuals. But my favourite part of the day is when I go down to the riverside searching for butterflies, birds and even lizards! It is a little world of beauty, tucked away in a corner, a chirping world, a world of utter oblivion. And I spent my few brief moments in it.


(Written at Aut)