The sun was only beginning to come up the horizon when I took my last step up the hill. The air had a chill in it that I could smell through whatever remained of my semi frozen nostrils. I had trekked alone in the dark, fumbling, falling over stones, puddles and crevices that seemed no different than the innocuous jungle floor. As I sat on top of that hill, facing the rising sun, watching the morning sky change its colour to the infinite blue out of the pregnant night, the wind swept across my face and told me that I was free – free enough to see what can hold a man from the inside; free to love or hate, free to choose either. In front of me, as far as the wall of mountains standing like guards, was a wide valley blanketed with a thick layer of fog pierced here and there by trees that rose higher than the rest. Squatted on grass moist with dew, listening to the chirps of the birds that the cities have forgotten, basking in the slowly-growing halo of the sun, I smiled. I had understood the secret of that old woman who always smiled.
I don't know her name. I don't even know if I'd ever meet her again but I'll recognise her smile in the middle of millions. Hers was one of the most magical smile that I had known to exist. A smile that could tell you the definition of honest truth – the unchangeable kind, the independent kind, yet the one that won't harm – like the sun or the moon who would come up every morning no matter who lived or died, smiled or cried, won or lost. Her husband died, she continued to smile. Her son left, she continued to smile. Lot more happened to her that can be safely qualified as misfortune, but she continued to smile the same true, infecting, heart-warming smile. After I had made sure that she was not mad, I finally had the courage to ask her what made her so happy? My question made me nervous, as if I was about to ask her figure.
'I water the plants,' she said, without even looking at me. She was watering the plants then.
'You water the plants? And that's what keeps you happy?' I asked, perplexed. She looked at me, that same smile playing on her face and she nodded. For a moment, she made me nervous. 'But you can't be doing that all the time, and you'd feel bored by it after some time. You can't be happy by such a thing forever?' 'When I'm bored with plants, I cook,' she said without blinking an eye and with such a calmness that made me feel like the numero-uno fool breathing over mother earth.
I left. I had no more questions. In my mind I had decided that she was mad.
I went back to life – a desk job in an air-conditioned office, a roof to shelter and hide me, lots of hours to spend finding reasons for missing that one harmless smile that in those days of childhood, was so much in abundance that it was easily taken for granted. Riddled days like that makes man realize the travesty and misconception of all those bonds that we once perceived as unconditional – parents on whose shoulder we could stand and look for our own dreams with covered eyes; that sibling we believed will always be our little, dear bunny; that best friend we believed will always be the best friend forever; that one true love that we hoped would walk with us hand in hand when the dawn of life dissolves into that last crimson evening; that child who when born, brought tears to our eyes – the kind that we only know once in life. One time or the other, for one reason or the other, with all those around, man watches all these seemingly unconditional bonds break into non-existence – no explanations provided – and with those, goes the right to that one true smile, that one mad laugh.
That day, having trekked that slippery slope in the dark, having raced against the impending morning, and finally watching the sun rubbing his eyes to the world, I realized that the old woman who always smiled was not mad at all. She had just discovered the key to happiness – she had accepted the fact that no bond is unconditional. Every bond is only weakly shackled by those invisible limitations that define the comfort, survivability, desires and attachments of those involved. Men and bonds change when these limits change – and these limits change very often, without warning. Those who remain attached are left wondering and troubled.
That woman, she had nothing on which she could depend. No living bonds that would give her the illusion of being unconditional. Even her hobbies that made her survive an otherwise boring, lonely life, would change. She saw, she knew and she accepted. She accepted that nothing was unconditional except 'Change'. She braced for it, prepared for it. There ended her struggle with herself, there ended her dependence on life and things, there began her journey to a happiness that would never end – like that fabled fountain of youth. I guessed, and quiet correctly that if I'd asked her if she felt any anger towards those who left their own ways, she'd have said, 'Why hate them? Why feel angry? Its not a crime to want happiness. We all need it. Don't we?'
She was not mad after all. She'd known and accepted the truth about change. She was free now.
The sky was a crimson carpet now. The clouds seemed like innocent, playful pieces of paper simmering at the edges. I was getting late.
I got up. I had a mountain to climb down, a road to travel, and a day to smile. Unconditional, like the morning sun.
I don't know her name. I don't even know if I'd ever meet her again but I'll recognise her smile in the middle of millions. Hers was one of the most magical smile that I had known to exist. A smile that could tell you the definition of honest truth – the unchangeable kind, the independent kind, yet the one that won't harm – like the sun or the moon who would come up every morning no matter who lived or died, smiled or cried, won or lost. Her husband died, she continued to smile. Her son left, she continued to smile. Lot more happened to her that can be safely qualified as misfortune, but she continued to smile the same true, infecting, heart-warming smile. After I had made sure that she was not mad, I finally had the courage to ask her what made her so happy? My question made me nervous, as if I was about to ask her figure.
'I water the plants,' she said, without even looking at me. She was watering the plants then.
'You water the plants? And that's what keeps you happy?' I asked, perplexed. She looked at me, that same smile playing on her face and she nodded. For a moment, she made me nervous. 'But you can't be doing that all the time, and you'd feel bored by it after some time. You can't be happy by such a thing forever?' 'When I'm bored with plants, I cook,' she said without blinking an eye and with such a calmness that made me feel like the numero-uno fool breathing over mother earth.
I left. I had no more questions. In my mind I had decided that she was mad.
I went back to life – a desk job in an air-conditioned office, a roof to shelter and hide me, lots of hours to spend finding reasons for missing that one harmless smile that in those days of childhood, was so much in abundance that it was easily taken for granted. Riddled days like that makes man realize the travesty and misconception of all those bonds that we once perceived as unconditional – parents on whose shoulder we could stand and look for our own dreams with covered eyes; that sibling we believed will always be our little, dear bunny; that best friend we believed will always be the best friend forever; that one true love that we hoped would walk with us hand in hand when the dawn of life dissolves into that last crimson evening; that child who when born, brought tears to our eyes – the kind that we only know once in life. One time or the other, for one reason or the other, with all those around, man watches all these seemingly unconditional bonds break into non-existence – no explanations provided – and with those, goes the right to that one true smile, that one mad laugh.
That day, having trekked that slippery slope in the dark, having raced against the impending morning, and finally watching the sun rubbing his eyes to the world, I realized that the old woman who always smiled was not mad at all. She had just discovered the key to happiness – she had accepted the fact that no bond is unconditional. Every bond is only weakly shackled by those invisible limitations that define the comfort, survivability, desires and attachments of those involved. Men and bonds change when these limits change – and these limits change very often, without warning. Those who remain attached are left wondering and troubled.
That woman, she had nothing on which she could depend. No living bonds that would give her the illusion of being unconditional. Even her hobbies that made her survive an otherwise boring, lonely life, would change. She saw, she knew and she accepted. She accepted that nothing was unconditional except 'Change'. She braced for it, prepared for it. There ended her struggle with herself, there ended her dependence on life and things, there began her journey to a happiness that would never end – like that fabled fountain of youth. I guessed, and quiet correctly that if I'd asked her if she felt any anger towards those who left their own ways, she'd have said, 'Why hate them? Why feel angry? Its not a crime to want happiness. We all need it. Don't we?'
She was not mad after all. She'd known and accepted the truth about change. She was free now.
The sky was a crimson carpet now. The clouds seemed like innocent, playful pieces of paper simmering at the edges. I was getting late.
I got up. I had a mountain to climb down, a road to travel, and a day to smile. Unconditional, like the morning sun.
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