Nothing ennobles human
beings more than the company of their beloved ones in an environment suffused
with the splendour of nature. My latest
such experience occurred last summer when Maggie and I visited Shimla. The verdurous hillsides that rise majestically
all around cling to your soul with an unearthly tenacity. They bewitch you so much that you feel
oppressed and liberated simultaneously.
You become the questing knight of
Keats’s La Belle Dame Sans Merci. You are drowned in transcendental
beauty. You are intoxicated with it.
Having spent the day
visiting various places of tourist interest, we were dropped back by our driver
at the Old Bus Stand from where we wished to walk up the fairly steep ascent to
the Mall Road. The narrow lane is lined
on both sides with goods of all sorts ranging from exotic trinkets to day-to-day
grocery items. The mundane and the sublime
coexist in an edifying spirit of camaraderie in the markets of hill
stations.
A view from the Mall Road Photo by Maggie |
A colossal statue of
Hanuman that overlooks the entire town welcomed Maggie and me as we stepped on
to the Mall Road. We sauntered along the
road constructed by the British and now crowded with tourists from various
parts of the country as well as outside.
Standing at a relatively deserted part of the road, we watched the
saffron Hanuman towering above the trees and even the mountains. The thick foliage that surrounded him crept
into my imagination and began to metamorphose into a story. Instead of Keats’s knight questing for his
mysterious Dame, my fantasy drew up a female protagonist robed in the saffron colour
of the Indian ascetic and was on a spiritual quest. While Maggie sat on one of the pews in Christ
Church seeking spiritual union with her God, I sat beside her conjuring up the dimensions
of the ascetic who had invaded my imagination. Maya was finding her
dimensions in my imagination.
As the sun disappeared
behind the foliage that marked the horizon, Maggie and I walked into an elegant
restaurant for our dinner. Shimla’s
apple wine failed to surpass the intoxication of its mountains.
Even when Maggie and I,
perched precariously on our ponies, were climbing up the rugged trail leading
to Kufri’s adventure land the next morning the fictitious woman in the woods surrounding
the Hanuman temple kept haunting my imagination. Maggie screamed as her pony slipped on a
pebble. “Hold on tightly,” instructed the guide who was walking between
our ponies. He kept instructing us when
to bend forward or backward so that the pony is not overburdened by our
ignorance of riding rules. I watched
Maggie on her pony making a fine balance between fear and ecstasy.
Balance and
harmony. Merging of contradictions. Evaporation of polarities. Was Maggie merging into Maya or
vice-versa? How is a story born?
Being with your
beloved unfolds stories. Naturally. Like the blossoming of the tree when the
season arrives.
I still remember how liked that story 'Maya', so nice to know about its origin today :)
ReplyDeleteThe origin of many stories may be stories by themselves.
DeleteI was walking down the memory lane reading this post. Beautiful post, Maya is a lovely name for fiction. It has that vibe.
ReplyDeleteGlad the post moved you, Saru.
DeleteSir, we have nominated you for awards http://www.auraofthoughts.com/2015/03/thank-you-for-versatile-blogger-award.html
ReplyDeleteThanks a lot. I've been very busy. Will visit your blog soon.
Delete