The other side of the river
This land of a short stay, hopefully:
It is a featureless land – flat, bald. There is nothing here – not even stunted warped trees, or shrubs, or thorny bushes, or bramble, or scrub, or dry bristling grass.
The colour of this land is an unchanging drab gray, like an overused murky mop. No day, no night, no dawn, no dusk – just this unchanging gray. Yes, even the deep dark of the night would be something – a respite – but, no.
It is full of stale recycled air that chokes on itself.
It is full of feeble sounds that have lost their original full-bodied tenor.
It is not even inhabited by restive shadows that congregate and part only to meet again in restless union. Even that movement would be something.
There are no loathely shapes here, no uncertain forms shuddering in and out of life.
There is a listless stillness, a dull dragging solitude.
It is a tired land moving heavily to a slow, slow, slow death.
Anyone who makes the mistake of stopping here in this land crawls torpidly in a changeless state of non-existence that is neither life nor death.
But there is a river – wide. One half of it is turbid, a grimy gray. The other half is luminous and sprightly, with moonbeams strumming against it merrily.
There is a boatman with averted face. He stands rigidly on his small flimsy boat. I want to cross the river to the other side, the bright side where my Baba lives. Yes, lives and waits for me to cross the river and offer homage at his shrine. He waits for me to break free from the insidious claim of this land on me. Just because I fear the boatman, I hover uncertainly between life and death – a fearful shadow.
If I could see the boatman’s face, glimpse some sign of life in him, I would venture nearer.
He is most unlike any other guide, I say.
But guides come in unlikely shapes and forms, sometimes un-genial, even ugly.
Can I trust him, Baba?
Come, He calls. Trust Me.
This land of light and hope and fruitful work waits for you. I wait for you.
