The Day After...

He sat at the edge of the large rock projecting out of the mountain, staring at the endless open sky in front of him. For him, he was at the end of the world and from his perspective, it did not really matter. He dangled his feet into the endless infinity and felt the wind buzz at his face. He was tired. Really, really tired. He turned his head around to see the broken stony pathway that led him to where he had come from. He turned his head back in distaste and resignation. He imagined his dangling feet hit a small clump of loose soil and felt it break itself loose and fall down into the valley. He tried to analyse the beauty of the place where he was. The sky was blue and black and grey. There was greenery all around – not the cultivated, trimmed and maintained one but raw, untamed lushness of the spread of greenery. It was silent and peaceful. Only once in a while did some bird somewhere break the silence. He tried to listen to his inner voice. Tried to find tranquillity and solace. But all he could hear was his own dissatisfaction and turmoil.

Five days ago, he had started on this journey. He used to be a newspaper delivery boy before. In the evenings, he would make some more money by running some odd jobs for the people. His life was stagnant and mundane. That was till one day he ran into a drunken sailor who told him the story of a certain shrine up in the mountains that was very secluded yet very powerful. People who had gone there had had their lives transformed. He had not given it a lot of thought back then but over the next few days his mind kept wandering back to the story. What did he have to lose? A job no one cared about? His parents had stopped speaking to him ever since he dropped out of college. His girlfriend had told him that she didn't care one bit whether he lived or died. That was right before she threw him out of her apartment. With nothing else to take care of, he might as well try and commune with God or Holy Spirit or whatever changed people’s life when they reached the shrine. He had saved up, purchased maps and some survival food and left, carrying a small rucksack and a small bundle of money sewed into his undershirt.

Presently, he drew out a pack of cigarettes from his rucksack and lit one. The wind grazed his hair and the orange embers came to life as he sucked the smoke in, let it stay in for a bit and then blew out of his mouth and nostrils, heaving a long sigh. He remembered reading a few inspirational books back in school days. A few of them had been about similar sojourns into the wild where boys (or men like him) found the meaning of their lives. Back then he had believed, He had even thought that someday he would go out into the world and find a meaning to his life. He closed his eyes and exhaled deeply. They all talked about the journey. They all talked about reaching there. They all talked about the great discovery. But what after that? No one talked about that. At least no one he remembered. Everyone talked about the tiring and dangerous journey. But what about the journey back?

He looked at the long path that he had struggled to climb to reach the summit where the shrine was. At first he had been cheerful and relaxed. He was on an adventure that would change his life. He almost felt happy. But then slowly the harshness of it all had come to light. It had started raining, and there was no shelter. Through the rain he had continued his journey and then during the day the sun had been too strong. On the second day, he ran out of his provision of food. He had thought he had enough but then he realized he had forgotten to pack keep the other package of food in his bag. From then, the only thing that kept him going was water and the cigarettes. Thankfully, he had kept them in a waterproof zip-lock bag. On the third day (or was it the fourth?) he ran out of water too. Somehow he had struggled on and just when he had felt that he could go on no more, he realized that he had reached. It was a disappointment.

When the sailor had told him about the place, he had assumed that it would be a tedious journey but at the end he would reach some sort of a monastery or something where some old sage or wise monk would give him some advice. On the contrary, when he did reach the shrine, there was no one there. It was not even a proper shrine. Just a small stone on which someone had chiselled “Lay your troubles here”. He looked around but couldn't see anyone. There were a few rotting fruits at the shrine which he had eaten before he lay down on the ground and had fallen asleep out of exhaustion. And that brought him here – now.

He took out the money bag and counted the money. Barely enough to buy food for a couple of days. But then what could he do? He was exhausted and feverish. And a five day journey before which he wouldn’t even see a face. That too without food or water. He couldn't do it. This is why they don’t talk about it. For them, the journey is more important. They don’t ever think of going back. For them life is a journey. The path back is repetitive and boring. No one needs to think about that. For them tomorrow will be another challenge. But what about me? I had no dreams and I have none now. For me the only path that lies ahead is to go back. And I can’t do it.

He took out another cigarette. It was the last one. He sat there smoking his last cigarette at the edge of his world, thinking about the day after. Philosophy, perhaps only for the rich?

Afterword:

“The Day After…” was inspired by the questions that came to me when I stumbled upon a news source speaking of a rickshaw wallah who has started on an epic journey from Kolkata (Calcutta) to Leh on his rickshaw. Immediately upon seeing it, I questioned what it would feel like to finish that trip, reach your destination and then to look back at the road and realize you would have to take it again to return to wherever you have come from. It was in turn, also partially inspired from the way I feel when I am traveling. To finally reach the destination and then realize a few days later that I have to do it all over again – step by step. Why can’t the return journey just happen in a snapshot? Perhaps I have felt it quite a lot when playing video games as well. The objective of the thought was not to slight or question the dream but just to muse on what happens the day after. Sometimes it’s easy but often it’s not.

- Parekh, Pravesh

September 29, 2014
02:30 – 03:24 – 03:40 AM
NIMHANS