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| Photo via the author |
When the day is done, they say, when silence abounds and bodies walk alone, you spill out of yourself, to friends who huddle together intoxicated by fumes or the beloved who is coupled uncertainly close to the heart. There are free spirits as well, seeded inside the warm luxury of their beings; the stoics, on the other hand, will not speak out loud. They would rather walk every day for the midnight tea, exchanging opinions on shoes, sporting scenarios, local politics, national news, the bride, the groom, and who slept with whom. Yet, the sepia tint of popular nostalgia emerges in the silhouettes of creepy trees and ghastly hillocks studded with glowing sodium. Even though with the advent of LEDs, the streets of Mussoorie have somewhat been sanitised off their angelic murals of a quaint past, silence remains suspended in an eternity here. Comparative analysts, who are known for their silver hair and sullen faces, have put forward an argument that the streets are not as quiet as they used to be. Does everything not stay the way it used to be? Well, opinions are like rear view mirrors, where beliefs appear more distant than they are. What has changed in that eternity of silence? Has silence turned to kitsch? There are more of humans and less of trees for sure: new buildings coming up instead of the law prohibiting construction. Noisy tourists, obsessive drunkards, and reckless youths. Bass booming hysterically outside smoky car windows and ruptured silencers lining the streets. Rocks are pillaged with jackhammers under the cover of darkness… None of this hangs together in terms of linear cause and effect. A testimony to substantiate your convictions are the streets themselves, whose asphalt has grown weary of holding this town together. Well, they are dug open from time to time, the streets. Telecom wires, sewage, or just unscrupulous water pipelines for hotels and lodges. If this is not enough, the rain washes the streets off their asphalt.
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Prince, dressed in black, gazes into the skies presenting his maroon eyes to the silent emptiness above. Nothing was there yet. In the next instance however, the old sodium lamps dispersed their light further into the streets and now to the cemetery slopes as well. She has arrived. The diffused light had confirmed her presence. Seduction, the potion veiled in the storm is now complete.
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| Photo via the author |
What are dreams made of? Shadows alone do not suffice — conscious violations of breaking reality reap fruits of sanity. Your calculated risks among numbers galore seek the primordial hum of a voice that guides purpose in all directions. Perhaps they nurture your living daze. Fruitful to the ear that hears and to the tongue that speaks not. Listen to the tales from the village folks — tales that climb and descend every day into the future, shaping realities. Because no roads have yet cut through the mountains completely, walking continues to remain the sole option in emergencies. An evening routine used to draw the village dwellers around a bonfire, but now they remain isolated in homes glued to their television and smartphone screens. Slate plates no longer decorate the roofs of their homes, but the multi-storeyed concrete structures standing on terrace farms have taken over the village scenery. These downpours from the town have settled here as architectural designs. For, such a co-existence is a regular requisite for financial stability. A few farms harvest grains for homes as cattle bear witness to seasons living in inert sheds. Heritage is something that used to preserved by the forefathers. Younger blood is quicker to climb. They live leeward in Kolti and gauge their future every day by looking upwards at deodars obscuring the cantonment of Landour.
He wakes up in Kolti. His were rather inconsolable meanderings among the mesh of voices in the head. What would have come to be, what would they have said, if he had not opened his eyes? Left alone in dreams, those voices certainly felt free to take inconceivable forms. Looking at his face though, one would reckon the wordless mystery in his eyes lost to a wonder. Yes, he is the most regular human, who gets out of the sleeping bag and unzips the tent. He is as insignificant to life as death to a speck of dust.
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Water or life energy in perpetual motion? Humans though, impute all characters of significant performances in the forefront. One tale to the next passes on by the condition of change. Beginnings are regarded as the most authentic instances of appearance. Not to mention, they are severely contested. Who was the first to climb these hills upward and find the hill station? History and heritage both preserve the names. Such concrete historical facts are not to be taken umbrage against. Facts come and go; the waters though, keep flowing. In the daze of the Raj, water was collected from remote springs around Landour. Women and men, who risked their lives and the lives of their mules, lay forgotten even today. They have been long buried under the heap of names of estate owners and prominent visitors in town. What will necessitate a noble mention of any names that carried water on their backs to fuel the most cherished days of wine and roses? Pump houses made it into the scene much after, when names had already claimed their respective pieces of estates. Departments and boards then emerged as collective terms for the ones who could not be named. They are a myth now — the flood of inspirations contaminated with resounding names and disputed opinions.
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| Photo via the author |
Mysteries were all alien to him, for droplets dangling from leaves certainly appear splendid despite their inaudible chronicles. Mist also knew of this negligence. She had seen countless photographers framing realities around these drops. It would take incredible occurrences to convince his drenched newfound heart. It so happened, that he stopped to pick up a pinecone as a souvenir for his forest hike. He bent down to pick it up. It was then that Mist delivered a violin melody from a faraway land to his ears. Distant yet heartfelt, the melody seemed to be absorbed in the lower cemetery. The trees all stood still, watching patiently. Bow strokes on violin strings were in no hurry either, for each of them let itself glide for the entire length of the bow. The melody of such elegance swelled in ambience of echoes, carefully held piece to piece by Mist. She was the air of resonance in the cemetery and hence formed the stupor of silence for the composer of this melody. He saw this musician play as he approached the tune. He walked with the violin pressed under his chin and brushed the bow effortlessly onto the strings. To observe him walk, he sat himself down next to a grave with freshly extinguished candles. The walk continued into the fall of dusk that evening, which had Mist shining in gold. His hair also shone golden as he walked further crooning the misty silence. What happened on the violin was a fond adoration of quietude in this place full of life. There was solitude in his stillness but of a comforting kind that grew ever distant with his footsteps fading into the departure of day. The tune held all beings together, even birds sat quietly on their branches to see him perform. Nobody, expect his own self, knows what expression his face reflected to the tune. Everyone could only see his back from where they sat. The tune is familiar to the currents of the breeze here and lingers on further for those who desire to hear. If you are unable to hear, know that he touched silence with his violin that evening.
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(Mussoorie Daze is published by Red River)
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