from White Fang by Jack London

Dark spruce forest frowned on either side the frozen waterway. The trees had been stripped by a recent wind of their white covering of frost, and they seemed to lean towards each other, black and ominous, in the fading light. A vast silence reigned over the land. The land itself was a desolation, lifeless, without movement, so lone and cold that the spirit of it was not even that of sadness. There was a hint in it of laughter, but of a laughter more terrible than any sadness - a laughter that was mirthless as the smile of the Sphinx, a laughter cold as the frost and partaking of the grimness of infallibility. It was the masterful and incommunicable wisdom of eternity laughing at the futility of life and the effort of life. It was the Wild, the savage, frozen-hearted Northland Wild.

Fog

Like a possessive husband the fog had hidden the mountains from the real world. Today, perhaps, he has gone to visit another lover of his. As the haze left, the ice-capped peaks peeped out like a shy bride. Oh! The husband has returned and quickly veiled his wife again!

It is a gloomy winter evening. The sun is not a fierce ball of heat in the sky. Instead, it is a battered splash of yellow in one corner. Besieged by the gray fog it is waiting for the next hour to carry its impotent rays away from our eyes.

It has been raining since noon. The heavy shower has turned into a specter of a drizzle. The drops that I hear are not raindrops but water falling from a collected pool in the terrace. They are falling at a constant pace with enough time between consecutive drops to make me aware of each drop's journey. I hear the beginning of a drop's flight as it detaches itself from its source. The timid whistle as it cuts through the air in an acceleration of exuberance. And the final splash when it shatters its existence to make the world aware of its past.

Early morning

A cold beautiful morning melts on the quiet buds of my thoughts. The suppressed crooning of the tender breeze bathes my skin. I wake up and look out of the window. Just inhaling the sight around me is divine, blissful. Twittering birds that dissolve in their camouflage. Moist grass catching the enchanting first rays of sunlight. I look at a large drop of water sitting like a pearl on the upper edge of my window. It has swallowed the sky and I look at the clouds floating inside it. As I open the window further, the drop rolls down slowly. I can see it letting go of the sky and consuming, one after another, the trees, the hut beside, and my finger nails. Like memories, they coagulate inside the drop and vanish. The drop falls on the ground and spreads to engulf the blossoming of a flower above. The liquid flower flows in the spreading drop, mingling with sunshine, yawning and stretching, changing colors and shapes with a fluid effortlessness. In that fantastic mirage, the flower and the water live together and move with the rhythm of the sunlight, feeding on the ground and slowly fading away. In an effort to save them, a drizzle begins. The sweet smell of rain wafts into me and settles on the stillness of my mind. I see the colors of the flower rise up against the rain, crystallizing in every raindrop. The rain destroys the solidity of the surroundings - the hut, the trees and the hills around. They become shimmering silhouettes of delicate, dancing colors. The world around me looks gentle, vulnerable and tremulous - like a nascent being.

Sojourn

[ This is an exercise in imagination and writing. I took a picture and then, along with its description, have penned the thoughts that ran in my mind when I was seeing it. ]

I stopped my bike on the way to take a break and breathe in the intoxicating beauty of the landscape around me. After two hours of non-stop riding, it took time and effort for my feet to balance my weight while standing. I had started ascending the mountain about ten minutes back and already I could savor the giddy height on seeing the ground a few hundred feet below. I tucked my bike away from the highway, sat on a rock that looked like a colony of algae feeding on a giant almond, lit a cigarette and listened to the silence taking shape around me.

My worn out shoes sniffed the edge of the desolate road that curved out from behind the mountain on the right and sank into the trees on my left. The dazzling sunlight streaked through the grass and trees creating new rainbows with every tilt of my head. My green sweater stretched from my back to clothe the cliff behind me. The vegetation was thick and ominous. In contrast, a small patch of the ground on the opposite side of the road had been cleared and looked barren and forlorn. The farther edge of the patch slowly rose from tiny shrubs to a dense forest, walking its way to drink the river flowing below. The loneliness was augmented by a single naked tree, bereft of leaves, guarding the patch.

The tree was standing tall and proud amidst the surrounding lowly shrubs. Its nakedness was a stark attempt to soar above the mundane. Its pencil-tipped branches were trying to hold and etch its existence into the fleeting bolts of clouds, in vain. Clouds there were many, like an army moving forward to besiege the sun. But every soldier, however valiant, was impaled mercilessly by the furious, golden monarch of the sky. In a monstrous, collusive alliance, the sun crushed the invasive forces and fed them to life beneath.

The cigarette amalgamated into the sunlight. I broke myself out of my reverie, started my bike and resumed my journey.