Part I: Daydreamer
People are rooted to the real world, they revel in times of real joy and lament in times of real sorrow. At other times they wallow in the routine. But even in the real world, there are few, capable of effortless transition between the mundane and the magical.
With a pencil stub held between his teeth and elbows planted firmly on the desk, Bhuvan looks through his horn rimmed glasses across the pool of bobbing oval heads to where Mr. Phillips is deriving the Nernst equation on the blackboard. The chalk in the Physics teacher's hand squeaks across the board laying down thermodynamic gibberish and he looks on with rapt attention. His brown eyes are intense and his gaze is unwavering. For any unsuspecting bystander he may appear to be mesmerized by how Gibbs free energy is being manipulated to get to the Nernst equation. But someone close to him will understand that his mind is actually not inside this classroom at all. No one really knows on which meadow inside his mind he is grazing his flock of sheep; or the mountain stream where he is fishing for trout. And that if he is not tilling a mountain terrace with his power tiller or hitchhiking across the great Himalayas or taking a nap in the valley of flowers, he is in most probability, sitting idle under the lonely blue pine visible at the top of the Logodama hill.
Fortunately or unfortunately for him, none of his classmates or any of the teachers know much of what goes on inside his head. He is not the most popular kid in his class. Given that he is the best of his class, with athletic good looks and a pleasant personality, he ought to have been better liked. But although his classmates are in awe of his superior academic proficiency, they stay away from this introverted boy. The end result is that Bhuvan does not have many people to call as friends. He does not seem to mind it though. He has his own little world.
With his satchel slung across his shoulder, Bhuvan strides across the town square with his usual loping gait. The shopkeepers have just begun to open up for the day’s business. He averts eye contact with the few morning walkers he passes on the Road just to avoid exchanging unnecessary pleasantries. In this small Himalayan valley populated by a few thousand, most people know most of the others. Bhuvan is not particularly excited about getting recognized or being spoken to. Though there is a school bus which takes all the other town children, he finds it easier to walk the five kilometers to his school every morning. That way he can see and feel everything that he meets on the way and more importantly he does not have to bear the cacophony inside the school bus. He enjoys this part of the daily routine so much that he starts for school much earlier than required; who knows what new adventure he might miss if he is late.
Having crossed the town square and the market he slows down to a saunter. The road is almost empty, with an occasional vehicle passing by. He becomes receptive to the fresh morning breeze caressing his face. The rustling eucalyptus leaves serenade music into his ears. He follows a dislodged leaf on its way down as it rolls over hundreds of times in the air, before landing on the road with a rasping sound. A couple of sparrows are restlessly whirring about on the eaves of a roadside house.
“What’s the matter with you guys? Why are you so worried?” Bhuvan asks them.
He listens closely and hears them lament that a stray cat broke into their nest and took their eggs away. A little ahead, the jangling of bells speaks of cattle being herded away to graze. Every morning he sees a dozen cattle being led away by a couple of cowherds up the slopes, to some mountain meadow where there must be plenty for the herd to graze upon. Sometimes he wishes he could accompany them to that distant meadow, always wondering how beautiful it must be. Amidst all these, the continuous lashing sound made by the icy waters of the Mochhu River is ever audible. The sound of this mountain river can be heard from everywhere in the valley. It is the perennial song of this place. It is painful for him even to imagine what the valley would be like if one day, all of a sudden, the Mochhu decided to flow silently. A profound smile lights up Bhuvan’s face. It is as if all at once the cool breeze, the rustling leaves, the grieving sparrows, the jangling bells and the river’s song, all make perfect sense to him.
“Thank you God, this is how it is supposed to be.” He looks up to the heavens and says a small prayer.
In this state of delight he makes his progress towards his destination, dabbling in new revelations, and discovering new stories with every step. As he walks on, engrossed in his surroundings, he notices a bright red cloth flapping on the brae beside the road.
“What the hell is that?”
On closer scrutiny Bhuvan finds a piece of silk fluttering in the breeze trying to overcome the restraint administered at one end by a carefully constructed cairn. There is also a red envelop tucked delicately under the pile of stones. It looks like a Message, left there for somebody.
“This is so unusual. Who is this meant for? Why would anyone leave a message here?”
From the manner in which it is arranged, there is no doubt as to its deliberate intent. But who would come all this way to leave a message in the middle of an unfrequented mountain road? What should he do about it?
The inquisitive boy falls into a dilemma; part of him instructs, “Bhuvan, just leave it and move on.”
His curiosity however, urges him to hang around a bit longer. Finally giving in to this urge, he scrambles up the brae and perches himself on a rocky ledge that provides a clear view of the road and the cairn. He eagerly watches out for the person who comes to collect the message, but in vain. After lingering for a long time, having observed a number of villagers, a couple of cars and few motorbikes pass by, Bhuvan finally clambers down the slope. It surprises him that none of the passersby seemed to take notice of the red silk marker even though it is very conspicuous. He decides to go ahead and take out the envelope.
“Maybe, there is an address mentioned where I can get the message delivered.”
He pries out the envelope from under the pile of rocks and carefully opens it. There is nothing written on the envelope, no name, no address. Inside the red envelope there is a folded piece of handmade paper. Bhuvan draws the letter out and unfolds it. Written on it, in a beautiful hand, are these verses:
O traveler, if you do pursue
Boundless treasures meant for you
Keep your eyes open, you need
Signs ahead that you must heed
Your destiny lies from all concealed
Waiting for you, to be revealed.
Look out for a fluttering yellow
Out there, where the mulberries mellow.
This is a story written in five parts. For going on to Part II, click on the link - Silk Route
For Part III - On Black Rock Mountain
For Part IV - The Lonely Pine
For Part V - The Treasure At Last
For Part III - On Black Rock Mountain
For Part IV - The Lonely Pine
For Part V - The Treasure At Last
