The Reluctant Father

There's a lot of peculiarity about my becoming a dad;
While others revelled I cant say that I was not all sad.

It felt like a setback to my carefree happy go lucky days.
I knew not why but everybody felt I should mend my ways.

No more rambling in the wild on a hot and sunny week end,
No sudden trips out of town for now there's a kid to tend.

No more allowed to be like before, bohemian and wild;
A single argument from everyone, “What’ll you teach your child?”

Unlike the times that I could go out and enjoy in the night;
I cant now for a toddler needs to be always kept in sight.

Autumn it was, in late October the date was twenty fifth;
The baby chose to come, and all looked eager for the 'gift'.

Beside my wife in the labour room seeing her huffing and puffing;
Tears trickled down her cheek amidst her writhing and roughing;

I waited in fear holding her hand as she kept crying out in pain;
Debating inside why this was necessary, “what do we have to gain?”

A little child in the house meant  giving up on my capers;
Oh what  a life I saw ahead, with me changing wet diapers.

An hour long labour later when the baby hit the ground'
“A boy it is,” said the doctor hearing which I frowned.

For all the hoop la our parents made, l’d hoped for a little girl;
Sweet and colourful was what we wanted; a boy becomes a churl.

The nurse carried the boy away as I met the new born mother.
Relieved to find that all was well; my girl was out of bother.

The sister rubbed and cleaned the boy and put him on a scale.
“A big boy there,” the nurse declared,”4 kg, hearty and hale.”

“A big boy just like his father,” I beamed inside my mind.
Wonder from amidst all the fear, ‘pride' how I did find?

I had my first look as they cleaned him and laid him on a tray;
“Innocent lil bugger,” I said without any sugary display.

Wishes and blessings from all around  came fast pouring in;
Lil did I realise when my face had changed into a happy grin.

When the baby was brought in for its first ever little suckle;
I prodded him and probed him from his head to toe to knuckle.

While tickling on his tender legs I found in there a mole, “Oh!
This boy will travel a lot,” I named him Marco Polo.

A day later when we came back home with the new born child in tow;
Since then I have not found time to ponder on my woe.

No weekend wilds no unplanned travel no eat outs as before;
But  feels all cool, the home feels good, I go out side no more.

A would be father I was then, my heart was full o' reluctance;
The story however is not the same now its almost ten months hence.

Its true that he has reined his heart from every outdoor venture;
But in his son this reluctant father has found his best adventure.

....that humans are in sects.

“In the stillness of your presence, you can feel your own formless and timeless reality as the unmanifested life that animates your physical form. You can then feel the same life deep within every other human and every other creature. You look beyond the veil of form and separation. This is the realization of oneness. This is love.”

-Eckhart Tolle

In the course of our lives we come across circumstances that alter our perceptions. Some of them jolt the very foundations of what we know, leading to unexpected realizations. Such instances become memorable for ever.

Her name was Saba Khan. She was my classmate and the prettiest little thing I had seen in the seven years of my existence. We were in the third or fourth standard perhaps, I don’t remember exactly.

What I do remember till date is my fondness for her. She was very pretty but more than her prettiness, it was perhaps the serenity about her that attracted me most. There was something in her eyes. She had lovely brown eyes, like those of a fawn, innocent and full of wonder; the kind that could perhaps inspire poetry. They evoked feelings of happiness, the sort that you get when you see a beautiful wallpaper depicting falling autumn leaves. Like the placid surface of a lake, her calm eyes seemed to hold numerous untold secrets underneath.

I was a shy kid back then. I had my own gang of pranksters with whom I was comfortable. In the class of forty, I did not speak to everyone. I did not speak to her as well, not often anyways. It did not help that she was not the outgoing kind. Quiet and reserved, she was nothing like me. While she carried herself with poise, I was like a little bull in a china shop. She could sustain her spotless uniform without an extra crease throughout the week while I was always the one with ink spots on my shirt or a hole somewhere on my trousers.

That I did not speak to her much, did not prevent me from observing her with admiration all the time. The memory of her pretty little face with the black scarf on her head is still fresh in my mind. Her soft fair cheeks dimpled every time she smiled. In the classroom  I would sit just across the aisle and look at her in awe every time she spoke or stood up to answer.

Then came the day it all happened. It was the moral science period and the topic was something new, about different religions and places of worship. At the end of the lesson the teacher gave us an exercise. Each of us was supposed to tell her, what religion we belonged to and what place of worship we visited. One by one the students answered and all the while I waited as usual for the question to reach Saba.

She stood up and said, “I am a Muslim and I go to pray in a mosque.”

I would have kept on looking at her had it not been for the question that jumped the aisle and came straight for me.

“Abhigyan, what about you? Tell us what your religion is and where you go to pray.” The teacher asked me.

I could not have answered the question had it not been for Saba. It was the first time I had heard about something called religion. It was like people were of different kinds. At that moment I had not even realized that I did not know the answer to that question.

I had replied confidently, “Mam, I am a Muslim and I pray in a mosque.” If Saba Khan was Muslim I could not be different.

My friends had giggled and a couple of them had tried to prompt an answer to me. The teacher had inquired, “Are you sure you are a Muslim ? I think you are a Hindu.”

I had stolen a glance at Saba Khan who had been looking at me with a doe eyed expression on her face.

Having found no reason to reconsider my answer, I had emphasized,  “Yes Mam, I am a Muslim.”

With a kind smile on her face the teacher had said, “It is all right my child, why don’t you speak to your parents and then let us know tomorrow.”

It was only after I had asked my parents had they explained how people followed different Gods and how they are classified into religions and each religion into sects. It was the first time I learnt that there are differences among people. They are divided into religions and sects and castes and other strange groupings. 

I had come to realize that I was Hindu and more importantly, that I was different from Saba Khan. The immensity of this dismal realization had felt heavy.  All of a sudden I had become sad about the fact that I was not a Muslim.

The Quest, Part V: The Treasure at Last

On the summit of Logodama hill, under the lonely pine tree, Bhuvan gets yet another message in verse.

A hundred years, I’ve been waiting still,

The lonely pine on a lonely hill,

For souls that have but lost their way,

Far removed by time’s sway;

To make them meet is my sacred task;

Whatever it takes and what price it asks.

Now that you are here at last,

Take a vow that you’ll hold fast.

And then -

“That’s all? All that talk of treasures and destiny, comes down to this?”

Unable to make head or tail out of the last set of verses, Bhuvan sits down with his back rested against the blue pine tree, tired and confused. Convinced that he has been set up for a wild goose chase all morning, he laughs out aloud. Closing his eyes he tries to feel the cool mountain breeze on his face. The whispering sound of the wind sounds like a symphony of a thousand sighs.

A soft hand on his shoulder brings him out of his trance. Mr. Phillips has left the classroom. School is over for today. Most of the guys have left the classroom. Some are still packing up.

He turns his head around and is stupefied to see Kalpana looking curiously at him. Kalpana is a parallel entry from another school. She has enrolled in Bhuvan’s class just a couple of weeks back.

She removes her hand from his shoulder and with a kind smile on her face asks, “Aren't you coming home?”

Tongue tied by this unforeseen development Bhuvan stutters, “Yes yes, I am, of course.”

Kalpana takes an unruly lock of hair and disciplines it behind her ears. Then she looks at Bhuvan with big eyes and enquires, “Do you mind if I walk with you?”

“No, not at all.” mutters Bhuvan feeling abashed.

Bhuvan packs his satchel and walks out of the class, with Kalpana by his side. They walk silently past the corridor, down the flight of stairs, across the assembly ground towards the school gate.

Bhuvan is unable to comprehend how all of a sudden he was in the class. Was he dreaming then all about the treasure and the quest? Or is this one a dream- Kalpana asking to walk home with him? Even in this confusion, he senses that the girl beside him is looking at him with curiosity. He looks at her for an instant and as their eyes meet, finds her expressive eyes and her puckered lips exhibit amusement. But it is not the amusement of the cruel sort that he is used to seeing. This amusement is wrapped in a kind layer of understanding. Bhuvan drags his eyes away from her’s.

As they approach the school gate, something catches Bhuvan’s attention. It is a pink scarf fluttering from the branch of a willow tree.

“Do you mind waiting here for a minute?” Bhuvan asks Kalpana.

“No, what is it?” She asks lifting one of her eyes quizzically.

“I'll be with you in a jiffy,” says Bhuvan as he takes off.

There's a pink envelope wrapped in the folds of the pink silk scarf. As he draws the envelope out of the folds he notices it has no name and no address. He opens the envelope and finds a neatly folded piece of handmade paper inside. He unfolds the paper and reads.

Aeons ago, two souls did wander,

By providence, were thrown asunder.

This day they meet as God has willed,

As bounteous harvest, for faith fulfilled.

By magic beneath the solitary tree

Their worlds shall meet, was fate’s decree.

Today they meet as the stars foretold,

Two hands for each other to hold.

Bhuvan folds the paper and puts it into his pocket. He is convinced he is still in a dream. Inside his pocket Bhuvan’s fingers encounter something familiar. He wraps his fingers around it and draws it out. It is a bunch of four neatly folded pieces of handmade paper with the verses that have been driving him across the valley all morning. This is surreal; Bhuvan is unable to find his actual bearings; he is literally in a daze.

As he approaches Kalpana, she asks of him, “What did you find?”

“Ah! Nothing of much worth.“  Bhuvan shrugs and they start walking side by side.

After a moment of silence she asks “Do you believe in magic?”

Rolling his eyes in bewilderment, Bhuvan looks at her dumbfounded and says, “Yeah, I guess so.”

She looks at the funny expression on his face, throws her head back and breaks out into a laugh.

Bhuvan looks at her mirthful countenance and something in it strikes as very familiar, maybe something from the past, or maybe it is just a feeling.

As her laughter subsides, Kalpana looks into Bhuvan’s eyes and extending her hand towards him she says, “I am new to this town; I don’t know anyone here as yet. Will you be my friend Bhuvan?”

This is a story written in five parts. For going on to Part IV, click on the link - The Lonely Pine

For Part I - Daydreamer

Part II - The Silk Route

Part III - On Black Rock Mountain

The Quest, Part IV: The Lonely Pine

In a shocking development, a blue scarf and a cairn appears out of the thin air and spooks out Bhuvan. He gets another message on the Black rock mountain.

Through all your efforts you ensure

Your heart’s desire, one that’s pure

The treasure that, for you is meant

Smolders within thoughts deepest pent

Your heart of gold shall fetch the prize

Like a phoenix born, so you shall rise.

Upon the hill where the lone pine stands,

Is the purple patch your soul demands.

Thenceforward -

It’s yet another clue. Just like with the previous clues, Bhuvan is unable to comprehend the purport of the first six lines. What can this great treasure be, that deep inside his heart he longs for? He tries to mull over the lines. But no, he doesn’t understand what treasure the message is implying. He folds the paper and puts it into his pocket. The last two lines indicate a hill that has a solitary pine tree. Without any doubt it is Logodama hill that is referred to. Logodama hill is on the other side of the Mochhu river. It is one of his favorite places in the valley. Whenever he is sad or depressed, this is the place he goes to for resting all his worries.

“Upon the hill where the lone pine stands, is the purple patch your soul demands.”

“A purple patch can mean good fortune, or it could be yet another clue maybe indicated by purple color.” He surmises. The only way to find out is to go to Logodama hill.

Spooked by the turn of events, he wishes to get out of this place quick. Bhuvan starts to descend from the Black rock mountain. He comes bounding down the mule track and quickly descends on to the tar road. Half a mile down the tar road, he gets off onto a dirt track and races down to where the villagers have constructed a temporary wooden bridge across the river. He crosses the rickety little bridge in a minute and is on the other side of the river. From there he races half a mile to the bottom of the Logodama hill and starts climbing the hill using a well trodden mule track. In another fifteen minutes he is standing at the summit of the Logodama, huffing and puffing from exertion. He throws himself on a grassy patch, completely fatigued and lies there for sometime before he can pull himself up.

There is absolutely nothing on the summit except for the solitary blue pine tree and he himself. The only other presence is that of the whistling breeze and the faraway sound of tolling bells it is carrying. He sits down under the blue pine tree and keeps his eye open for anything unusual. But soon the exertion takes its toll and he starts to doze off. The sound of a jangling bell up close shakes him out of slumber. He awakens to find, right in front of him, ten meters away, a scarf of purple silk fluttering in the wind. By this time, he is used to such ghostly events.

A carefully constructed cairn holds the scarf in place. As usual there is another envelope under the pile of rocks. He takes the purple envelope, opens it and takes out a folded piece of handmade paper. The message says,

A hundred years, I’ve been waiting still,

The lonely pine on a lonely hill,

For souls that have but lost their way,

Far removed by time’s sway;

To make them meet is my sacred task;

Whatever it takes, what price it asks.

Now that you are here at last,

Take a vow that you’ll hold fast.

This is a story written in five parts. For going on to Part III, click on the link - On Black Rock Mountain 
For Part I - Daydreamer
For Part II  - The Silk Route

For Part V - The Treasure At Last 

The Quest, Part III: On Black Rock Mountain

At the Silk Route, Bhuvan finds a message marked in yellow that has these lines.

What’s the treasure that you want?

What you shall have and others can’t?

O seeker, for you does fortune wait

Your deepest yearning will it sate

Atop the hallowed black rock mountain,

The guru’s name chants a holy fountain

Blessed water shall forge your Karma true

To make you ready for your gift in blue.

After that-

The next destination it seems, is the Black rock mountain. The message again talks about some fortune that will satisfy Bhuvan’s deepest yearnings.

“What can that be? Right now what I need most is an inverter motor for the science project.”

 But there’s plenty of time to think about that. Presently the treasure or fortune, whatever it is, is not important. Bhuvan is actually high on the challenge of the quest.

Quickly he goes through the verses a couple of times. The Black rock mountain is a hill with a Tibetan Mahayana Buddhist monastery at its summit. The ‘holy fountain’ must definitely refer to the natural spring that falls on the way to the Norbulingka monastery. The water from the spring is conveyed using wooden channels to the foot of a huge Buddhist prayer wheel. The impact of the falling water turns the prayer wheel and the mantras written on it are spread into the universe for the benefit of all the human beings. The water that comes out from the foot of the prayer wheel is considered blest. So this message is instructing him to drink the blessed water and receive the next clue, which may be indicated by something of blue color.

Without further ado, Bhuvan sets out for the Black rock mountain. He has to get back on to the tar road, follow it for a couple of miles and then get off it at the foot of the Black rock. The only way up the hill is a mule track that is used by the monks to carry all their supplies to the monastery. Bhuvan breaks into a slow run after reaching the main road. In less than twenty minutes he is at the base of the Black rock mountain. After catching his breath for a couple of minutes, he starts climbing the mule track. The mule track is narrow and at places treacherous, but Bhuvan has negotiated it numerous times before; he knows each and every curve on it. A half hour climb brings him to a wide natural landing. To the right is the giant prayer wheel and behind it, a short way up the slope is the natural spring. 

There’s a small Chhorten at the edge of the landing, to the left. Tired from his exertion, he tosses his satchel and plops on to the ground with his back to the chhorten, looking down at the valley below. Even in all his tiredness, he cannot resist admiring the spectacular view in front of him. The entire valley is laid out before him. The pristine water of the Mochhu is sparkling in the morning sunlight. The terraced hills all around the valley are planted with paddy. Paddy dominates the valley floor as well. Light and dark green waves form as the breeze passes over the paddy fields. The song of the valley cannot be heard up here. The only sounds here are those of the wind whistling through the pine needles and the regular tolling of the tiny bell attached to the prayer wheel. Each time the bell tolls, it signifies one complete rotation of the prayer wheel.

Thus rested, Bhuvan gets up and walks to the prayer wheel. He takes the blessed water between his palms and drinks from it. He sprinkles some of it on his face and head. Then he turns around.

“Good Lord! How is this possible?”

Shell shocked, he feels a chill run down his spine. Right where he was sitting few moments ago, a blue silk scarf is fluttering in the wind. Instantly Bhuvan runs in one direction, for some distance on the mule track and then on the other side. But he could see no one leaving the landing. Shaken by this spooky incident, Bhuvan fearfully goes closer to the chhorten to inspect. A carefully constructed cairn is placed on one end of the blue scarf, and there is a blue envelope placed under one of the rocks. Swiftly he pries out the envelope and takes out a folded piece of handmade paper from within. Verses again;

Through all your efforts you ensure

Your heart’s desire, one that’s pure

The treasure that, for you is meant

Smolders within thoughts deepest pent

Your heart of gold shall fetch the prize

Like a phoenix born, so you shall rise.

Upon the hill where the lone pine stands,

Is the purple patch your soul demands.

This is a story written in five parts. For going on to Part II, click on the link - The Silk Route

For Part I - Daydreamer

For Part IV - The Lonely Pine

For Part V - The Treasure At Last

The Quest, Part II: The Silk Route

On his way to school, Bhuvan finds a message in a red envelope by the roadside. He finds these verses inside.

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.

Thenceforward -  

                                                                                           

“What in God’s name is this?”

Taken aback by the message, Bhuvan looks around, wondering what this means.

“Someone trying to fool around with me; this must be a prank?”

But who could it be and why would someone take so much pain just to play a prank on him? Although, this seems unlikely, yet the other possibility of this being real is too fantastic. Flummoxed, he reads the lines again. It clearly states that there is some treasure and whatever it is, it’s meant for him, provided he is the traveler who is addressed in the poem. Someone is trying to lead him to the treasure with clues. This poem is the first of them. The second clue has been marked in yellow, probably by a yellow cloth. The last two lines talks about his destiny, which will lead him to the treasure. It is hidden from others and will be revealed only to him.

“Does that mean that the clues are visible only to me?” He frowns.

That may explain why no one noticed the red marker and the cairn earlier. But then, what if it is some sort of illegal enterprise, what if it is a trap? With his mind churning out all sorts of possibilities and considerations; eventually his in-born curiosity and the likelihood of missing out on an adventure outweighs all his other apprehensions. Bhuvan decides that the only way to understand is to go ahead and find the next clue. He reads the lines again.

“Out there, where the mulberries mellow”

There is only one place in the valley where mulberry grows and that is in the silk farm called Silk Route. He knows this place very well because he had done quite a lot of study on sericulture for his Geography project in the tenth standard. He had visited the Silk Route, and spoken to its cheerful proprietor Wong Hon-hei. Wong Hon-hei, is the lone descendant of his father Wong Fei-hung, who had migrated from Tibet to India a long time back in the fifties, during the Chinese occupation of the plateau. Despite all the odds, Wong Fei-hung established his own Sericulture farm in this Himalayan valley and prospered.

The Silk Route is a mile down the road, on a huge patch of alluvial flood plain on the bank of the Mochhu. Bhuvan sets off at a brisk pace towards Wong Hon-hei’s farm. The cheerful silk farmer is one of his very few friends and he will definitely help. A mile long walk brings him to a point where a wide dirt track leaves the main road and goes down the slope toward the riverbank. He hits the dirt-road and comes to a traditional cattle barrier made of the trunks of young eucalyptus trees. He slides the upper beam to one side, steps over and crosses the lower one and then slides the upper beam back in place. Walking down the slope, he reaches Wong Hon-hei’s residence and calls out for him. But his calls are answered by the housekeeper Lady Zhao. He learns from her that Wong Hon-hei has gone to the city and won’t be back before nightfall. Nevertheless, Bhuvan makes his way to the mulberry farm by himself.

As he draws closer to the barbed wire fencing around the mulberry farm, he is disappointed to see that none of the big plants have any fruit on them.

“Is this a hoax? Or is there some-place else where mulberry trees are growing?”  Bhuvan questions in disappointment.

Right then, he remembers that these Mulberry bushes are grown only for their leaves to feed the silk worm caterpillar. They are not supposed to fruit. Wong Hon-hei has a small fruit Orchard at the other end of the farm which has fruit trees. Along with the plums, peaches and oranges, there are a couple of big Mulberry trees as well. Instantly, Bhuvan sets out for the orchard. He runs along the boundary to the far side of the farm jumping ditches, ducking overhanging foliage and running through dense undergrowth. Reaching the other side, he stretches the barbed wire fence apart and eases through the gap into the orchard. The boy has been here a number of times and knows the place well. He walks between the rows of orange trees to where he knows the two mulberry trees are. Reaching there he looks up at one tree and then the other. Both of the small trees are heavily laden with fruit. Getting closer to the trunk of one tree, treading on the squishy fruits fallen at the base, Bhuvan inspects the branches.

“There’s something hanging up there.”

To his joy, he finds a bright yellow piece of silk waving at him from one of the branches above. Gingerly, he climbs up the trunk onto an overhanging branch, careful not to have the fruits stain his clothing. One end of the scarf is tied around an overhead branch, with a yellow envelope in its folds. Bhuvan takes out the envelope and finds yet another neatly folded piece of hand-made paper inside. On it is written in the same hand writing, another verse.

What’s the treasure that you want?

What you shall have and others can’t?

O seeker, for you does fortune wait

Your deepest yearning will it sate

Atop the hallowed black rock mountain,

The guru’s name chants a holy fountain

Blessed water shall forge your Karma true

To make you ready for your gift in blue.

This is a story written in five parts. For going on to Part I, click on the link - Daydreamer

For Part III - On Black Rock Mountain

For Part IV - The Lonely Pine

For Part V - The Treasure At Last

The Quest, Part I: Daydreamer

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