Skip to main content

Sage



Fiction

His eyes stunned me.  Otherwise I wouldn’t have noticed him at all.  How could I ever expect to meet a school classmate of mine in a jungle of Uttarakhand wearing the garb of a sage?

I was on a trekking expedition to Hemkund and the Valley of Flowers along with a few students of mine.  We were all nearly exhausted after the previous day’s trek from Govind Ghat to Ghangriya followed by the present morning’s trek to Hemkund.  We were at an altitude of 3600 metres, nearly in touch with the angels or at least the clouds.  Some of my students had cheated by ascending Hemkund on the backs of hired ponies.  A teacher has to be very understanding, almost like a god who is eager to forgive his creatures, his very own creatures.  That’s why our ancient tradition puts the guru on a par with the gods.  But meeting Shivan on the way to the Valley of Flowers unsettled me notwithstanding all the understanding I had acquired during the thirty odd years of my career as a guru.

Shivan and I were not the best of friends in school.  Shivan was the black sheep while I was a line-toer.  Whenever I was sick of toeing the line I went with Shivan to the rubber estate near the school to have a cigarette with him during the lunch break.  Shivan had brown eyes.  “Cat,” we called him.  His eyes resembled a cat’s.  When Shivan hurled his choicest abuses on those who called him Cat, I felt both admiration and pity for him.  Once I gathered the courage to pat on his back and say, “Why do you bother?”  He stared at me with his cat’s eyes and said, “Come with me.”  I went with him.  To the rubber estate that lay outside the school campus.  Those were days when walls had not begun to divide borders. 

Shivan gave me a cigarette while lighting the one he had thrust between his lips.  I watched the smoke emerging in circles and spheres from his lips.  I lighted my cigarette too.  “Never mind,” said Shivan when the smoke made me cough. 

My admiration for Shivan boomed.  I couldn’t even smoke while he could create art out of the smoke that emerged from his lips. 

“Shall I create a cloud now?” Shivan asked me one day.  I admired the cloud he created with the cigarette smoke.

The friendship ended soon, however.  The annual exams came and Shivan failed.  I went on to attend college and eventually became a teacher.  There was absolutely no connection between Shivan and me after school.

Until I met him three decades later on the way to the Valley of Flowers.

“Life is funny, man,” he spoke through the beard that covered his lips and slapped my back as he used to do when we were in the rubber estate, he creating clouds with cigarette smoke and I struggling not to cough.

He had been staring at me while I was ascending the trekking path with a few students of mine.  The eyes caught my attention.  Cat’s eyes.

I stared into those eyes which stared back into mine.  That’s how we met.  I told my students to go ahead.  The Valley of Flowers awaited them.

Shivan told me that he had left Kerala during the Emergency in order to escape arrest because he was a political activist questioning Indira Gandhi’s dictatorship. “I really didn’t know anything.  I just acted as my leaders told me,” he said.  “Later I learnt that all political leaders are the same.” 

His political leader wanted to make him a martyr in order to gain popularity for the party.  Shivan was shrewd enough to see through the game.  He ran away to escape being a martyr for the sake of some crooked politicians.

Shivan’s journeys took him to Haridwar.  Then Rishikesh. 

“These swamis,” said Shivan, “they are no better than the politicians.” He met hundreds of them in Haridwar and Rishikesh. “So I carried on.  On and on.  Searching for something.  Something which my cat’s eyes could not catch.  And after a lot of trekking, trekking you say, trekking, after a lot of trekking, man, I reached here, in this jungle, peaceful jungle…”

“I’m glad you found peace at last,” I said.

“Peace,” he grinned through his unkempt beard.

I couldn’t decipher whether it was a question or an exclamation or a sarcastic statement.

“I wish I could spend more time with you,” I said.  “But my students are moving on and I have to be with them.”

“Dharma,” he said. Rather cynically, I thought.  “Go on, fulfil your dharma.”

I was about to leave when his voice arrested me, “Hey, do you by any chance have a cigarette with you?”

Comments

  1. How much trekking does one have to do before finding peace? Is it really possible to be in peace with oneself?

    Your story of one Siddhartha in the book left me asking the same question.

    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. There's only one place where we can find peace: within. No trek, no exercise can help unless we accept the horror within. But treks and exercises can make us confront the devils within.

      Delete

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

In this Wonderland

I didn’t write anything in the last few days. Nor did I feel any urge to write. I don’t know if this lack of interest to write is what’s called writer’s block. Or is it simple disenchantment with whatever is happening around me? We’re living in a time that offers much, too much, to writers. The whole world looks like a complex plot for a gigantic epic. The line between truth and fiction has disappeared. Mass murders have become no-news. Animals get more compassion than fellow human beings. Even their excreta are venerated! Folk tales are presented as scientific truths while scientific truths are sacrificed on the altar of political expediency. When the young generation in Nepal set fire to their Parliament and Supreme Court buildings, they were making an unmistakable statement: that they are sick of their political leaders and their systems. Is there any country whose leaders don’t sicken their citizens? I’m just wondering. Maybe, there are good leaders still left in a few coun...

Death as a Sculptor

Book Discussion An Introductory Note : This is not a book review but a reflection on one of the many themes in The Infatuations , novel by Javier Marias. If you have any intention of reading the novel, please be forewarned that this post contains spoilers. For my review of the book, without spoilers, read an earlier post: The Infatuations (2013). D eath can reshape the reality for the survivors of the departed. For example, a man’s death can entirely alter the lives of his surviving family members: his wife and children, particularly. That sounds like a cliché. Javier Marias’ novel, The Infatuations , shows us that death can alter a lot more; it can reshape meanings, relationships, and even morality of the people affected by the death. Miguel Deverne is killed by an abnormal man right in the beginning of the novel. It seems like an accidental killing. But it isn’t. There are more people than the apparently insane killer involved in the crime and there are motives which are di...

The Adventures of Toto as a comic strip

  'The Adventures of Toto' is an amusing story by Ruskin Bond. It is prescribed as a lesson in CBSE's English course for class 9. Maggie asked her students to do a project on some of the lessons and Femi George's work is what I would like to present here. Femi converted the story into a beautiful comic strip. Her work will speak for itself and let me present it below.  Femi George Student of Carmel Public School, Vazhakulam, Kerala Similar post: The Little Girl

When Cricket Becomes War

Illustration by Copilot Designer Why did India agree to play Pakistan at all if the animosity runs so deep that Indian players could not even extend the customary handshake: a simple ritual that embodies the very essence of sportsmanship? Cricket is not war, in the first place. When a nation turns a game into a war, it does not defeat its rival; it only wages war on its own culture, poisoning its acclaimed greatness. India which claims to be Viswaguru , the world’s Guru, is degenerating itself day after day with mounting hatred against everyone who is not Hindu. How can we forget what India did to a young cricket player named Mohammed Siraj , especially in this context? In the recent test series against England, India achieved an unexpected draw because of Siraj. 1113 balls and 23 wickets. He was instrumental in India’s series-levelling victory in the final Test at the Oval and was declared the Player of the Match. But India did not celebrate him. Instead, it mocked him for his o...

Whose Rama?

Book Review Title: Whose Rama? [Malayalam] Author: T S Syamkumar Publisher: D C Books, Kerala Pages: 352 Rama may be an incarnation of God Vishnu, but is he as noble a man [ Maryada Purushottam ] as he is projected to be by certain sections of Hindus? This is the theme of Dr Syamkumar’s book, written in Malayalam. There is no English translation available yet. Rama is a creation of the Brahmins, asserts the author of this book. The Ramayana upholds the unjust caste system created by Brahmins for their own wellbeing. Everyone else exists for the sake of the Brahmin wellbeing. If the Kshatriyas are given the role of rulers, it is only because the Brahmins need such men to fight and die for them. Valmiki’s Rama too upheld that unjust system merely because that was his Kshatriya-dharma, allotted by the Brahmins. One of the many evils that Valmiki’s Rama perpetrates heartlessly is the killing of Shambuka, a boy who belonged to a low caste but chose to become an ascetic. The...