The Nomad
Once more an autobiographical tale of rivers, wanderings and reflection:
The Nomad
As the sun began its descent, heralding another evening's contemplation, the nomad arrived at a river. He approached, thinking it to be a mirage until the cool water calmed his thirst. He decided to lay down his staff, to rest, drink, and cast his thoughts into the water. He sat for a long while, delighting in the river's ready acceptance of his reflections. Throughout his remembered life he had led a nomadic existence, passing through from one place to the next, each departure heralding the possibilty of new pastures, of a place where he might settle and throw of his itinerant wanderings. But no sooner did he arrive, then the call of his restless spirit would announce itself again, and so once more he would set of in search. And travelling again, he would glimpse the illusory nature of the ideal he sought, and yearn for release from the seeker's bondage.
He continued to drink at the river. His thirst sated, he stood, gathered his belongings and looked across the river to the plains stretching away in the distance. As he did so he was caught unprepared by his own reflection in the water, seeing himself in the face of a stranger who revealed to him the truth of his tiredness and solitude. In that brief emancipatory moment his self submitted willingly to the present waters. He laughed, threw down his belongings, and abandoned himself to the river. He removed his dusty clothes and entered the water like a child, splashing and kicking, drawing up water in his cupped hands and spraying his face, diving beneath the surface, stretching out afloat with arms extended, face up, his eyes half open to the sun?s rays, their colours fanning out through the liquid prisms that laced his lashes.
And so he spent some weeks there by the river's edge, bathing in its waters, and in its love of life. He cut his long hair and watched them carried away. He burnt the rags that clothed him, and from the roll of cloth that had served for his home, he cut and stitched new clothes. Slowly, the idea formed that he might find a more permanent rest in this enchanted place; to remain in this one place and yet pursure a journey of a different kind, as did the waters themselves. The nomad scouted the surrounding plains, following the river upstream, learning its ways and its riches. He learnt how to laugh and share his secrets with the river. He learnt to follow the river's course, neither questioning or seeking answers. And then, close to where the river emerged from the hills he came across a wooded area, where the land was more fertile and the air fresh with scent. From his belongings he retrieved an axe and began to build a home from the trees, and as the home grew, so did the river's passion, and so the nomad's desire to dance by its side, to the music of the wind that whistled through the outspread branches of the mangrove trees. Months passed, during which the nomad and the river lived side by side, each relating to the other of places they had been, people they had met, wonders they had seen. And a deep love grew between the two, borne out of and then transcending the passionate beginnings of their tryst. Here, the nomad thought, is where I will find a companion with whom I can be at peace, and who can quell my longing for searching.
But as the months passed, the river began to discern beneath the nomad's tranquil smile, older stirrings that had not died. And the nomad too grew uneasy, and fearfull of the long winter nights during which once again he began to wrestle with his old ways. At first he thought his calls to the road would pass, that they were simply echoes resonating from his former life. But then a sadness grew in his heart again, for he had betrayed the river, in not understanding that a lifetime?s longing cannot be so easily vanquished by another, and that is was folly to expect such a thing from another. He understood then, that he must distill from within himself, a balm for his uneasy heart, and alone must shatter the illusions impelling him on his eternal search. And then, and only then, did he deserve the river, and the river him.
One morning, as the sun began its ascent, heralding the end of another?s night's restless contemplation, the nomad walked naked to the river's edge, and dipped his feet in the cold water. He sat by the edge and dangled his legs. But the river seemed so distant, and its flow had lost its gentle rhythm and eddied more turbulently than ever before. The nomad hesitantly prepared to launch himself in the water, but as he was about to do so, he saw that the once crystal clarity of his reflection had become sullied and distorted. And he knew in that instant that it was not due to any diminishment of the river?s powers, but that it was himself holding back from giving of his reflection. But still he decided to submerge himself in the river. He prepared to dive, but as he was about to do so the river suddenly began to withraw from the shaded bank, retreating to its centre, so that it's passage narrowed and it?s tunefull flow gave way to a rushing discord. The nomad stepped back, and in that instant knew what both the river and he willed. He walked mournfully back to his wooden hut and tiredly repeated the rituals of gathering his belongings and preparing for another journey. But this time, instead of the usual restless expectation, his rituals proceeded with a profound sadness that shrouded his heart.
And so the nomad set of again, while behind him the cries of the river reverberated louder as it's course continued to narrow. The nomad's progress was slow, for he stopped again and again to turn back and stare longingly at the river he left behind. And as he walked, the burden of his sorrows grew as the rumble of the river's anguished passage faded. After some hours he stopped and sat in the shade of a banyan tree. He was surrounded by the sound of wind and birds and the murmur of life folding and unfolding. And then, as he sat, thinking once again of the river, he was envelopped by a sudden silence. And the nomad himself was stilled, but for the beating of his heart. The silence lengthened, and in its wake the faltering course of what was now but a stream could be heard. The nomad raised his head from his chest, and looked to the point from where he had come. He stood up and set of again, walking now with purpose, in the evening cool. Night fell, and only the moon lit his path, but it was a path he knew well that took him through the mangrove trees. He planted his staff once more into the still damp soil and walked to the midpoint of what was once a river. He walked to the other side, his shoes still dry. He himself then lay down, let his weary head rest, his cheek pressed against the earth, and cast his gaze upon the dry riverbed. For how long he would stay there he did not know. He felt no desire to seek answers, as he lay there waiting for the river to once more flow.
The Nomad
As the sun began its descent, heralding another evening's contemplation, the nomad arrived at a river. He approached, thinking it to be a mirage until the cool water calmed his thirst. He decided to lay down his staff, to rest, drink, and cast his thoughts into the water. He sat for a long while, delighting in the river's ready acceptance of his reflections. Throughout his remembered life he had led a nomadic existence, passing through from one place to the next, each departure heralding the possibilty of new pastures, of a place where he might settle and throw of his itinerant wanderings. But no sooner did he arrive, then the call of his restless spirit would announce itself again, and so once more he would set of in search. And travelling again, he would glimpse the illusory nature of the ideal he sought, and yearn for release from the seeker's bondage.
He continued to drink at the river. His thirst sated, he stood, gathered his belongings and looked across the river to the plains stretching away in the distance. As he did so he was caught unprepared by his own reflection in the water, seeing himself in the face of a stranger who revealed to him the truth of his tiredness and solitude. In that brief emancipatory moment his self submitted willingly to the present waters. He laughed, threw down his belongings, and abandoned himself to the river. He removed his dusty clothes and entered the water like a child, splashing and kicking, drawing up water in his cupped hands and spraying his face, diving beneath the surface, stretching out afloat with arms extended, face up, his eyes half open to the sun?s rays, their colours fanning out through the liquid prisms that laced his lashes.
And so he spent some weeks there by the river's edge, bathing in its waters, and in its love of life. He cut his long hair and watched them carried away. He burnt the rags that clothed him, and from the roll of cloth that had served for his home, he cut and stitched new clothes. Slowly, the idea formed that he might find a more permanent rest in this enchanted place; to remain in this one place and yet pursure a journey of a different kind, as did the waters themselves. The nomad scouted the surrounding plains, following the river upstream, learning its ways and its riches. He learnt how to laugh and share his secrets with the river. He learnt to follow the river's course, neither questioning or seeking answers. And then, close to where the river emerged from the hills he came across a wooded area, where the land was more fertile and the air fresh with scent. From his belongings he retrieved an axe and began to build a home from the trees, and as the home grew, so did the river's passion, and so the nomad's desire to dance by its side, to the music of the wind that whistled through the outspread branches of the mangrove trees. Months passed, during which the nomad and the river lived side by side, each relating to the other of places they had been, people they had met, wonders they had seen. And a deep love grew between the two, borne out of and then transcending the passionate beginnings of their tryst. Here, the nomad thought, is where I will find a companion with whom I can be at peace, and who can quell my longing for searching.
But as the months passed, the river began to discern beneath the nomad's tranquil smile, older stirrings that had not died. And the nomad too grew uneasy, and fearfull of the long winter nights during which once again he began to wrestle with his old ways. At first he thought his calls to the road would pass, that they were simply echoes resonating from his former life. But then a sadness grew in his heart again, for he had betrayed the river, in not understanding that a lifetime?s longing cannot be so easily vanquished by another, and that is was folly to expect such a thing from another. He understood then, that he must distill from within himself, a balm for his uneasy heart, and alone must shatter the illusions impelling him on his eternal search. And then, and only then, did he deserve the river, and the river him.
One morning, as the sun began its ascent, heralding the end of another?s night's restless contemplation, the nomad walked naked to the river's edge, and dipped his feet in the cold water. He sat by the edge and dangled his legs. But the river seemed so distant, and its flow had lost its gentle rhythm and eddied more turbulently than ever before. The nomad hesitantly prepared to launch himself in the water, but as he was about to do so, he saw that the once crystal clarity of his reflection had become sullied and distorted. And he knew in that instant that it was not due to any diminishment of the river?s powers, but that it was himself holding back from giving of his reflection. But still he decided to submerge himself in the river. He prepared to dive, but as he was about to do so the river suddenly began to withraw from the shaded bank, retreating to its centre, so that it's passage narrowed and it?s tunefull flow gave way to a rushing discord. The nomad stepped back, and in that instant knew what both the river and he willed. He walked mournfully back to his wooden hut and tiredly repeated the rituals of gathering his belongings and preparing for another journey. But this time, instead of the usual restless expectation, his rituals proceeded with a profound sadness that shrouded his heart.
And so the nomad set of again, while behind him the cries of the river reverberated louder as it's course continued to narrow. The nomad's progress was slow, for he stopped again and again to turn back and stare longingly at the river he left behind. And as he walked, the burden of his sorrows grew as the rumble of the river's anguished passage faded. After some hours he stopped and sat in the shade of a banyan tree. He was surrounded by the sound of wind and birds and the murmur of life folding and unfolding. And then, as he sat, thinking once again of the river, he was envelopped by a sudden silence. And the nomad himself was stilled, but for the beating of his heart. The silence lengthened, and in its wake the faltering course of what was now but a stream could be heard. The nomad raised his head from his chest, and looked to the point from where he had come. He stood up and set of again, walking now with purpose, in the evening cool. Night fell, and only the moon lit his path, but it was a path he knew well that took him through the mangrove trees. He planted his staff once more into the still damp soil and walked to the midpoint of what was once a river. He walked to the other side, his shoes still dry. He himself then lay down, let his weary head rest, his cheek pressed against the earth, and cast his gaze upon the dry riverbed. For how long he would stay there he did not know. He felt no desire to seek answers, as he lay there waiting for the river to once more flow.
posted by Sanjay at
Tuesday, April 18, 2006
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