Even the ants were beautiful. As they crawled in a neat line across the branch upon which he sat, he could not help but love how the burning, warning red of their bodies contrasted with the placid mossy brown of the bark. He had to break up their line to securely tie one end of the rope to the branch. He watched as the ants scattered in a million directions, confused by its strange massiveness. He looked down from where he sat, atop the gigantic mango tree in the backyard. It was a familiar sight--after all, he'd climbed up this tree a million times to seek refuge amidst the scented foliage. Climbing trees--that was all he was ever good at. That's what everyone said: all their tirades invariably started off with the statement of this one hopelessly unalterable fact.
What did they want, then? For him to have a LIFE, they said. Life? For him, life had always been the beautiful yellow of the butterflies' wings, the scent of imminent rain in the wind, the soft flank of a cow...but not for them, no. Life for them meant a job ("Daydream all day.....Ha! THAT will get you a job!"), a 'name' ("You will bring shame upon the family!"), a purse and a wife that would remain perpetually fat ("Look at all those girls--you think any of them will marry a good-for-nothing?"). Just like all his friends, they said. His friends--the names that once used to comfort him with their familiarity had become testimonies of all the things he could never achieve. They had, over the years, left his side and joined the million pairs of eyes that bore down upon him, full of derision; devoid of understanding.
As a boy, he would spend hours--on trees, beside ponds, in the woods--simply learning the quietly wondrous ways of nature. That's how they began: it started with 'Oh, he's just shy, quiet' and slowly escalated to 'A little off in the head, that boy,' as he grew. The open rebukes at his behaviour turned into quiet whispers behind his back. Do it for a living then, they finally said, with exasperation that was becoming more and more evident. But the diagrams on the flat paper textbooks did not come alive like they were supposed to; the million words provided none of the clarity he had hoped for. That path came to a dead end, too.
He tried--God knows, he tried. But the world that had revealed all its secret colours and scents to him as he sat atop the tree became sullen and unobliging whenever he sought a path. He hated it; he hated it all. Why couldn't they leave him alone?
And now he was back in his haven. Everything fell into place here. There was no accusation in the chirrups of the birds. Even the wary squirrels accepted his presence after a few terse moments. over the years, the people he knew had acquired a cruel, hardened sheen. But these greens leaves were as soft and pliable, and the breeze as gentle, as they had always been.
The ants had continued their march--this time, over the rope--as he sat, lost in his thoughts. He took care not to disturb them as he tied the other end of the rope to his neck. But the neat line descended into chaos once again as he leapt off the branch with a violent jerk. The confusion extended throughout the tree and its denizens as the branch twitched for a while, for just a little while. When all was still, all the deserters slowly returned. The birds resumed their perky chirping, and the old tree and its inhabitants settled back into their well-oiled routine of Life. And the world that at once completed him and tore him apart with its maddening secrets continued its never ending, cyclic motions, even as his heart was forever stilled. The flowers danced, and the sun shone forth from a spotless sky.
It was a perfect day.
No comments:
Post a Comment