It had been a long time since he’d seen Nischindipur—three years? A very long time. He knew that Nischindipur called out to him, called him night and day, called him all the time, the pond called him, the bamboo groves called him, the golden fields called him, the steps to the river called him, the wide eyed Goddess called him. The burnt house and the sweet lemon blossoms and the kitchen garden shadows, when would he be headed in that direction again? When would he hear birdsong again in that little forest next to his house? The river Icchamati must have overflowed again this monsoon. The water must have risen on the steps of the ghat. Thorns in the shrubs and the wild forest flowers and the wild Aparajita flowers making the forest blue. And on the steps of the ghat in their village Raju-kaka must have at this time (as he was accustomed to) gone to take his bath (never at the right time) and the fishermen had gone out in the river with their nets and today was the market day and behind the banyan tree the sun must be setting like frothy crimson fire in the tender horizon and the boys of the village—Potu, Nilu, Tinu, Bhola, were all returning from the market on that familiar earthen path. By this time the courtyard of their house must be full of dense shadows? And the birds were singing loudly on that sweet and silent and serene evening—that yellow bird must have come back to their wall today as well (and must be sitting there as it always did?) And the lemon plant that his mother had planted must be bearing little lemon blossoms? And after some time, darkness would fall on their house, but nobody would be there to light the lamps and nobody would be there to tell fairytales. The deserted house and the overgrown forest would be lit only by fireflies, and in the impenetrable darkness of this night the owls would cry out…nobody would tread that path again, nobody would take care of his mother’s lemon plant, and the kolmi plant would blossom into flowers that would wither and fall, and the fruits would ripen in vain, and the yellow bird would return in tears. For all eternity, those beautiful illusive evenings would descend on the forest in vain. In the morning, he had been beaten in front of a crowd of people without any consideration or justice, but he hadn’t shed a tear. But now as he stood in front of the window in that deserted room alone he cried inconsolably. His beautiful cheeks were flooded with unrelenting tears and as he raised a palm to wipe these off he thought, O God, may we return to Nischindipur—please God, let us return to Nischindipur—otherwise I cannot live—please… And the God of the Road laughed in delight and said, Foolish boy! My path does not end at the bamboo groves of your village; it does not end at Biru Ray’s yard or at the steps of the river! It goes beyond your golden fields and meadows, and across your river, and it stretches far, far ahead, and further beyond…it goes beyond your country to other lands, from sunrise to sunset, from the known to the unknown… And it crosses day and night, and it crosses life and death, months, monsoons, famine, epochs and it crosses and moves beyond all this…your insignificant lives and dreams become covered with scum and mold and yet the path does not end…it goes on…it goes on…it goes on and on… And its silent sounds can be heard only by eternity and the infinite skies… And the various travails on this path will leave an invisible mark on your forehead and that is why I have torn you out of your home and made you a helpless traveler! Let us move on…
Posted on: Tue, 02 Dec 2014 06:27:16 +0000
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