The Last Pass

R. N. Prasher

 

A Writers Workshop Greenbird Book

 

ISBN 81-7595-044-7(HB)

ISBN 81-7595-045-5(FB)

© 1996 R. N. Prasher

Writers Workshop books are published by P. Lal from 162/92, Lake Gardens, Calcutta 70045, India.  Hand-set in Times Roman typeface and printed on an Indian-make hand-operated machine by Sanjoy Chakraborty at Chakraborty Enterprises (Press), Calcutta 700032 on paper produced in India. Gold embossed hand-stitched hand-pasted and hand-bound by Tulamiah Mohiuddeen with handloom saree cloth woven and designed in India. This book is entirely set, single letter by letter.

 

THE AUTHOR

R. N. Prasher has varied interests in science and creative activities. With formal higher education in physics, economics and law coupled with a background of college teaching and long years as a bureaucrat, he looks at life with a curious mixture of empathy and detachment, He has travelled extensively in the higher reaches of the Himalayas, often alone. He makes relief carvings in wood representing various moods of human mind. His writings include poetry.

 

 

 

ABOUT THIS BOOK

The last pass is an ever present notion in the journey of life. Whether the traveller us wishing a speedy arrival or wants to linger on these paths, the journey follows its own pace. The referees may act as know-alls but they are as much adrift. Only those who live in the world of thoughts see the sojourn beyond the illusion of forms. Others remain trapped in playing games with lifeless rituals.

The journey towards the last pass through the valley of clouds and numerous other valleys is a journey neither in time or space. Yet, the travellers’ obsession with time and space drives them to effort and expectations. There are moments of exhilaration in the valley of fragrance. There are miserable moments in the valley of thorns. There is hectic activity in the valley of labels and the valley of circular paths. Every traveller crosses over the last pass sooner or later. Yet, “What is beyond the last pass? remains an unanswered question.

 

Dedication

TO

ALL THOSE WHO STILL HAVE

A CHILD HIDDEN IN THEIR DEPTHS

 

 

Publisher’s note

 

THE LAST PASS

 

“And what is beyond this last pass? You may call it the last pass, but it cannot be really the last pass. You said this journey has no end. You promised to tell me about many other things.” The disappointment in my voice was too plain.

“Yes, this journey has no end. But for the rest of your question, I will take another coin.”

The old man walked away with the rest of his story. My mother had given me only one coin.

“This journey, my son, can be very long. Or very short. It is a journey through high mountain passes and through valleys. Every few steps the path splits. There is no way you can retreat.  Once you start on this journey, you have no choice. You keep going till you cross the last pass.

But the journey has no end.”

“Do you have a choice after you have crossed the last pass?” I asked.

 

“It began in the valley of clouds. There were clouds all around. Big clouds, small clouds. Clouds of various hues, various shapes. Ever changing shapes. One would brush past your cheek, leaving it damp. One would envelope you into such nothingness you would like to believe you are back to where it all started. One would show disturbing streaks of harsh light, block it out for a moment leaving you cool and comfortable before flooding you again with that shrieking brightness. All these clouds appeared to think they were being playful. Most of them were a downright nuisance.

“A few of these clouds were sheer delight. These playmates would make you feel they would stay on. But clouds come and go. Or change. Even playmate clouds change. Sometimes in the middle of a game. Still, one would be with a playmate cloud than with a cheek damper or a bright blinker.”

“How did you walk in the valley of clouds? Were there paths?” I asked the old man.  He became aware of my presence. “Yes,” he said. “You could say one walked there. I would rather say one moved. More like a train on its tracks. When the line splits, it has no choice. It goes on a branch decided by the attendant who changes tracks. If there are a myriad split points, one would think there would be a myriad choices. Actually, there would be none.  “Coming back to the playmate clouds, the journey through the valley of clouds could be such a bore without these friends. If there were a lot of them around, you would not like to see the end of this valley. I still remember a game they played. You could call it ‘Find Out’. I would close my eyes and the cloud would tell what was it that I was seeing. The cloud always found out unless I cheated.”

“How would you cheat?”

“The cloud could not find out what I saw when my eyes were open. So I would open my eyes just this bit, just a little slit. Then, what I saw with the closed eyes got burred with the light sneaking in through the slit. If I opened my eyes too wide, the blurring would be too obvious to the cloud. But I learned to open the slit so narrow, that the cloud would see but less clearly. So it would say ‘sun’ when I would be seeing the moon. Then I would shut my eyes tight and the cloud would realise it had made a mistake. ‘oh, I must be growing old’, it would shrug and we would go on with the game.

“The journey through the valley of clouds passes swiftly if you keep meeting these playmate clouds. It could be so swift, you would wish it could slow down to let you have a few more of those games. On the other hand, if you meet only the cheek dampers and their kind, you long to get quickly to the other side of the valley but the journey gets so terribly slow.” I was not liking it.” This valley of yours is a strange place. You always end up with what you do not want. What you want seems always to be beyond your arm.”

“Maybe, but here you do have a choice. The playmate can stay with you whether your eyes are closed or open. In fact, it is more comfortable when your eyes are closed. Then it can see into you more clearly. But these other clouds stay around only as long as your eyes are open. You close your eyes and these other clouds hide in their bright corners. Then the playmates take over.”

“That sounds better,” I said. “What else is there in this valley?”

“A lot, except choices.  Everything you may need is generally taken care of. In fact, you may not need all that which is taken care of. But on this journey you have no choices. You have to take whatever is provided.  You are not supposed to need what is not provided.

“As you move along, you are fed, washed and lot more. Quite a bit of it would appear unnecessary. But these are rituals. These rituals are very important on this journey.” “Rituals,” I repeated after him. “What are these rituals which are so important?” “Oh, these rituals, these are everywhere on this journey. In every valley, on every pass. Except, Maybe, beyond the last pass. I am not sure of that. These rituals are forms without life. These are meant to replace thoughts with actions. No, these are not thoughtless actions for which you would have been reprimanded often. These are actions devoid of thoughts.”

 I knew the word reprimand very well. Yes, I had been reprimanded often for my thoughtless actions. I know those actions were not devoid of thoughts. But my thoughts were different from those of reprimanders. Hence, my actions based on my set of different thoughts became ‘thoughtless’. Maybe, I could also call their action of reprimanding me as ‘thoughtless action’. After all, their action was based on thoughts different from mine.

I realised that I had drifted into my reverie while the old man went on with his story. I rubbed my eyes and sat straight. All ears again. I had paid my whole day’s allowance for this story.  “Thoughts are life. Action is form. Rituals constantly change life into form. If you happen to branch on to paths crowded with rituals, most of life will be changed into form. You may finally become lifeless form. Then you perform a lot of actions. But without thinking. Life without thoughts can be very convenient. But one can be very uncomfortable. Actions occasionally give birth to thoughts. Rituals immediately pounce upon these thoughts to change these into actions.  If too many thoughts keep getting born and one happens to be on paths crowded with rituals, this constant battle can make one quite uncomfortable.

“All rituals have form, obtained by destroying life. This form of every ritual is a shell. Inside it is lifeless emptiness. A tough shell it is. If you punch it hard enough, it changes shape. But it is hard to break. Even if you break the shell, the lifeless emptiness inside does not break. It waits patiently till it is enclosed by the shell of a new ritual.

“Rituals are used to play games called Action Without Thought. Games, in which one tries to beat another. During the game, the ritual gets kicked around quite a lot. An occasional hard kick may change it considerably. But every kick changes it. The game goes on with the modified ritual.

“There are referees who are supposed to be custodians of these rituals. These referees decide how often anyone can play the game. They inspect the ritual after every hard kick and alter the game according to the new shape of the ritual. These referees are feared. They can hold back the rituals. That is very inconvenient for these travellers. Their life revolves around the game of Action Without Thought. They try to keep the referees happy, so that they are allowed to play this game.

 

I had not seen the old man for quite a few days. I wondered if he would come back to tell the rest of the story. I had written down in my large round handwriting all that he had told me so far. I read it all over again and again till I almost believed that I had myself moved through the valley of clouds someday in not too distant past. I would close my eyes and wait for a playmate cloud to tell me what I was seeing. Yes, sometimes when my eyes were really shut I felt someone or something close by. I could even feel it chuckle. If it spoke, it was in a language I did not understand. Or I had forgotten. The sounds appeared familiar from a time in the past of which I had no memories. As if that language had been overlaid by the one that I now spoke. And only the fuzzy fringe was heard.

 

Everyday, since early morning, I waited for the old man, straining my ears to catch the click-click of his walking stick on the cobblestones. This sound would punctuate the sound of his steps. Four wooden clods, one wooden stick. Click-clop- clop -clop -clop -click -clop-clop-clop -clop -click. The slow rhytthm heralded his arrival long before one caught sight of him. The initial, barely audible sound became louder and louder till, click, the lower end of the walking stick suddenly appeared around the corner. A moment ago, sound was the old man. Now it was the lower end of his stick. His left foot appeared few inches ahead of the stick, then all at once, the right foot and the left hand holding the stick and the creased, bearded face craning ahead, as if impatient to get somewhere before the rest of the body did. His eyes apparently focused straight ahead, missed nothing around. His measured small steps moved with a slow eternal rhythm. If he had nowhere to reach, perhaps he could go on forever. He almost did go on forever, on this journey towards the last pass. Did he ever feel tired?

 “Oh yes, sometimes I did feel tired. Everyone does, once in a while. It is a long journey. But not in the valley of clouds. As you move through this valley, you realise that it grows bigger and bigger. There are clouds even in the far distance. Some clouds move with you, others stay put in their zone.  Maybe, they have found another traveller. Oh yes, we were talking of feeling tired. When you feel tired on this journey, you want to cross the last pass quickly. You even feel like jumping across it. Your body refuses to move, your spirits desert you. Just one thought captures your mind. Get over the last pass and be done with it.”

“Don’t you come to the last pass after a long journey. After you have crossed many valleys and passes. You said so.”

“I said so? Then it must be true. Because I tell you as I saw them. Maybe, I do not understand some of them. We see a lot that we do not understand. But we know. We can know even when we do not understand.”

“Right,” I agreed. “I know the song of that bird over there. But I do not understand it.”

 “Thank you,” he said. “I could not think of an example. So I know that you come to the last pass only after you have crossed many valleys and many passes. But I also know that some travellers cross over the last pass from the valley of clouds and from every other valley that I passed through on this journey. Now I remember. I had met a wizard during this journey. He appeared to know everything that there was to know. Perhaps, it was because he never bothered to understand anything. He would walk alone and not talk to others when he passed by. When he did, travellers asked questions. They did not want merely to know. They wanted to understand. The Wizard did not like it. So he walked alone.

 “One day he somehow talked to me. He told me that every valley has three passes. Through one you enter. Then there are these paths with their myriad split points. Most of the paths lead in various ways to a pass over which you descend into the next valley. But some of the paths lead to another pass, the last pass. So from every valley, you could get to the last pass. But you have no choice. Even when you feel tired, you do not have the choice of taking the paths to the last pass. Someday one will cross over the last pass. But we know of it only when we come to it. We have no way of choosing the paths that lead to it from any valley.”

 “So what do you do when you are tired and wish to cross over the last pass and be done with this journey.”

“Well, I cannot say what one will do. In any case, one cannot choose to do anything. But I know that something does happen if at such a time you are not branching towards the last pass at every point the path splits. Either you tell yourself that you have stopped travelling on this journey.”

“But you said that once you start on this journey, you have no choice. You cannot even choose to stop.”

“That is true. You do not have choice of action. But you do have choice of thought. That is why these referees make rituals to replace thoughts by actions. To destroy thoughts. So that your choices are destroyed. But actions keep giving birth to thoughts. Most of these new-born thoughts are quickly grabbed by rituals and converted into action. Some survive for a little while.  Others get a dark, friendly corner and survive for long. If you have such a thought safely hidden, you always have a choice. Of thought.” He looked very tired. “Your questions force me to understand,” he said.

“So you tell yourself that you have stopped travelling. Then it is the same as not travelling. As  you believe yourself to be in a state without action, you get surrounded by thoughts. Sooner or  later, a ritual is kicked in your direction by a traveller or a referee. The ritual creates action by  destroying these thoughts surrounding you. As action is born, your journey begins again. But  chances are that by that time your desire to cross the last pass would not be that strong.

“ In fact,  as long as travellers are playing the game of rituals, they do not relish the idea of crossing the last  pass. They want to see the valleys ahead. And they want to linger on in each valley. Some even feel sad at the thought of crossing the last pass. Perhaps they do not like going into the unknown beyond the last pass. But they have no choice. At the very moment, they may be getting very close to the last pass. On some paths you do not see it even when it is just round the corner.  You reach there when you are least expecting it.

“ Of course, there are paths on which it is clearly visible from a distance. You notice your gradual arrival there. You may like it or not. But there are always surprises in store. When you think you are definitely on the way to the last pass, at the next split point you take a path which takes you away from it. Only after some time you notice that you are getting farther from it. There is no going back with these myriad split points.  You will end up somewhere totally different.”

 

“These valleys appear to be very big. You won’t see any crowds around, would you?”

 “I do not think so,” he said. “Some referees do say that the valleys are getting crowded. They say that increasing numbers of travellers are entering the valley of clouds every day. The referees believe that travellers have found some way of identifying the paths that lead to the last pass. So they avoid these paths and most of them are able to reach the next valley. That in itself should not create any crowding. After all, even if nobody went over the last pass, still everybody will cross over to the next valley. But the referees have another doubt. They think that travellers are lingering on in the valleys more than they did previously. The referees fear that having learnt to identify the paths that lead to the last pass, the travellers are going around in the valley, avoiding not only the paths leading to the last pass but also those leading to the next valley. Thus, while travellers keep entering a valley, lesser number leave. That is causing crowding in the valleys.

“The referees are very worried. Firstly, they are worried that the capability to identify paths will give travellers a choice, whether or when to cross the last pass. Secondly, the crowding of the valleys will leave little room for the games of rituals. The referees may simply lose their jobs.”

 “Do you think they are right? I won’t like the valleys to be crowded if ever I go there.”

“Now you talk like them. Why should you go there if you do not want it to get crowded? Others may not like the crowding caused by your presence. No, I don’t think that is fair.  Nothing is wrong with the crowds except that you cannot play the games with the rituals. That should worry the referees. As for the travellers, there would never be any real problem as the valleys have myriad paths.”

“So this is one choice. When I am tired, I tell myself that I have stopped travelling. What is the other choice?” I asked.

 

He did not come for a long time. I had joined a summer camp. Those were some happy days. They were not fussy. I had choices in plenty. In the morning you could take exercise, do the obstacle course, take a long stroll or hunt for peacock quills and snake moults. I would do the last. It became a one man ‘I spy’. I would keep walking in circles till I spotted the spoor of a snake. It will be a clear line as long as the ground was dusty. After a few days the spoors started telling me how thick the snake would be. I would follow the spoor first one way, then the other. Often the spoor passed through a grass patch. If it was early morning, the dew would show the track. Otherwise, it was lost. At least temporarily. Then I would start going around in circles, till I found the spoor again, or it was time to go back.

Back in camp, they gave us a choice in breakfast. Even burgers were there. First few days one would take nothing else. By the end of it I was eating most of the things laid, with relish.

Peacock quills came in various shapes. There were the ones with the complete eye, with the big, bright blue patch. There were others with the crescent top. And some did not appear to belong to the peacock at all. In any case, these tough drab brown ones did not belong to that beautiful tail. Then there were feathers, miniature replicas with a miniature eye, small browns and small blues. The small blues came from the neck. You wet these and they would become green. And blue again as these dried up.

 But no feather could match the awe and mystery of a snake’s moult. Complete in every detail, one had to look for the place from where the snake would have wriggled out. It was what the old man would have called Form Without Life. This gossamer snake without the snake pervading it may go limp in your hand. But it still had a lot of majesty in it. The eyes looked blank but the scales were so vivid. Holding it in my hand, I would close my eyes and the skin would come alive. Slowly the hood would rise and look at me.  A snake raising its hood and looking at you does not disturb you when you are looking at it with closed eyes.

 

Back to school days, life fell into a routine. I kept a vigil for the old man on weekend mornings.  Then, one day, my ears picked up the faint click-clop sequence over the surrounding noise. I ran towards the corner round which he used to appear. There were the usual weekend crowds, but not the old man. The heralding sound was also not closer. Before I could make any sense out of it, click, the stick had appeared at the opposite end. There he was, coming from a new direction. The one in which he used to walk away. I ran back and almost bumped into him.  “Where have you been? Did you come last month? I was at the summer camp. Did you come during weekdays? I would have been at school. You don’t look all right. Have you been ill?” I was breathless, with all the running and asking questions.

 

“I have been to a difficult valley. We shall talk about it later. I was talking to you about the valley of clouds when we last met. Well, there is not much left to say about that. As you move across the valley, the going becomes tougher. Earlier you moved without effort, almost floated with the clouds. Now, at times you crawl on all fours. The paths are narrower and full of distracting surprises. There are friendly animals, friendly birds. There are cheek dampers and bright blinkers who have become heavier. They now drift closer and you find that they are different from the mere nuisance clouds that they were at the beginning of the valley. At times they looked angry. Those annoying streaks of light of bright blinkers were now more like bolts of lightening. You feel threatened. Either join the game of rituals, or you will not be taken care of, they appear to be saying. In any case, you did not need what they called ‘taking care’.  Nevertheless, threats are always unpleasant. You remember the playmates, so numerous at the beginning of the valley. You want to go back there. But on this journey there is no going back

 

“This is the valley of stringed sounds. In the valley of clouds, sounds were free like birds. You heard a sound and you knew, you did not have to understand. Like the song of a bird that you knew but did not understand. This song is as free as the bird. So are the sounds in the valley of clouds. Maybe, the birds belong to the valley of clouds.

“You do not understand these free sounds, so you do not misunderstand. In fact, you cannot form a bond with these sounds, free as these are. On their endless journey, if you happen to be on the way, they just brush past you. For a moment, you savour their presence and then they are gone. The feeling can linger a little longer, but pretty soon comes floating along another free sound and the moments are taken over by the new one.

“The free sounds live for ever in the valley of clouds. All travellers in all ages find similar sounds there. These free sounds are very wary of crossing over the pass into the valley of stringed sounds. As soon as a traveller enters the valley of stringed sounds, he finds some strange things lying around. There is no reason why any one would have known what to do with these devices.  One would have just gone through this valley as with the previous one and the sounds would have remained free as ever.

“But there will be always someone who is not happy with merely knowing. Who wants to understand. Not that he needs to understand. But the urge to understand is so strong that this long nose is willing to spend all the time in understanding this strange object. All the time in which he would have known a million other things in this valley. So this traveller interrupts his travel and after a long time understands what this journey-interrupting device is.

 “He finds that it is a trap, in which sounds can be imprisoned so that they cease to be free, they cease to fly around. He finds the idea very exciting. He picks up the traps and starts trapping the sounds. He traps thousands of them. Almost all that were there in this valley. The trapped sounds were very sad. Flying around was their life. Deprived of it, they became mere forms, mere empty shells of their original selves. They lay limp in their traps. Then this non-travelling traveller picked them up, one by one, pierced them and passed a string through. The stringed sounds could be stored, destroyed, altered by anyone. The stringed sounds could be hurled at someone, could hit and hurt. These could be presented in a false package. This traveller thought of a million uses for these lifeless stringed sounds.

“He put on the robes of a referee and sat on the pass leading into this valley from the valley of clouds. He stopped every traveller as he came over the pass and gave him a trap. He said the trap was a ritual which must be carried on throughout the journey. Throughout the journey they must play a game with this ritual. The game of ‘trap and string’. He wore the robes of a referee, so travellers were afraid of him. They accepted what he said. And sounds ceased to be free in the valley of stringed sounds and beyond.

“All of this was told to me by the wizard. He knew it as it took place. But he did not understand why that traveller did it. I am sure if the wizard had tried to understand, he would have.  Perhaps, he knew that if he understood, he may also become a sound trapper and stringer. He did not like the idea at all. So he never harboured the thought of understanding. You see, even on this journey you have at least one choice. Of thought.

“Free floating sounds brushed past you and left after a moment. Every moment you would be in the company of a new sound. Once trapped, a sound could keep ringing in your ears forever. It could be with you through all those valleys and passes and even beyond.

“Sounds occupy your thought space. Thoughts are born in the thought space not occupied by  sounds. In the valley of clouds, the free sounds came and left after a little while. That left a lot of  thought space for new thoughts to be born into. This would not be to the liking of the referees.  They would like these thoughts to be converted into actions, so that you lose the choice of thought. I feel that the trapper and stringer did not come and act by chance. It must have been planned by the referees.

“Trapped sounds cannot fly away. Once they enter your thought space, they are there forever.  As you travel through the valley of stringed sounds, gradually, your free thought space become smaller. Soon, there is no space left for thoughts to be born. After that, you spend the rest of the journey playing the game of Action Without Thought.

“The trapped sounds are forced to lose their shape, their effect, their flight. Gradually, they take the shape of the trap. The trap changes shape with time, seasons, places. So also the sounds have to change their shape. Quite unlike the song of the bird over there. These free sounds have no trap, hence no shape. Once they brush past, you know them. Without understanding.

 “No one knows the shape of trapped and stringed sounds. You can only look at the bunch and the trap and presume that these shapes are the shapes of sounds. Obviously, these are not. In fact, once these sounds are trapped and stringed, there are only lifeless shells left. The referees tell you that these are sounds. You accept that. Having lost your entire thought space to the trapped sounds, the only thing you can do is to play the game of Action Without Thought. For that you need rituals. So you agree with anything that the referees say.”

 “Is there any way that you may pass through this valley without trapping and stringing sounds?  That you may continue to have free sounds around you. So that you do not have to be without thoughts.”

 

 

“Imaginary Indeed,” he said. His words showed amusement at my question. “Something is imaginary because in the first place you had imagined it. You imagine it because you think it is  not there. It is your thought, your belief, that is your conclusion. If you believe that it is not there,  it is imaginary. If you believe that it is there, but do not know it, you accept it as such. You may call it faith. Which is another game like Action Without Thought.”

 “Faith is a game like Action Without Thought? I have always been told to have faith. In myself, in others, in God. Would they ask me to play the silly game of Action Without Thought all the time?”

“No, they won’t. But they don’t think it is a silly game. They think it is a serious game. They may even think that it is the purpose for which we live, and the purpose for which we die. It is amusing the way they live for the game called faith and die also for the same game. But that is not important. I was telling you that if you have to imagine something, it means you believe that it is not there. If you have faith in something, you believe it is there. In either case you try to convince yourself of something which you do not know. But what happens if you know. Then you neither have to imagine nor you need faith.

“No, my son, I have not imagined this story. I know it. Though I have not tried to understand it.”

 “I have got something for you,” he said as he pulled out a toy watch from his pocket. On both sides, the digits were written on a ring. The central portion was transparent. Same pair of hands read time on both sides. So when one side read 3 O’clock the other side read nine. The two sides remained in disagreement except at six and twelve hours. I found it quite useless even for a toy watch.

“What is the time on this watch?” he held it before me. “Four,” I said. “And now?” He had turned the other face towards me. It was eight. “Which one is correct?” I could see the amusement in his twinkling eyes. I did not know which one was correct. This watch did not run.  If it did, I could take the face where the hands ran in the forward direction as the correct one. In any case, watches which are made to read time have only one face. You have to make a watch with one face if you want to read time. If you have one with two faces, then on one of these time runs in the reverse direction. You make a mark on one of the faces and believe that this is the face. You believe that the other face is not a face, not at least for reading time. It is not true, I know. But you have to believe it. Otherwise, there will be chaos in your life, what with early arrivals and missed trains.

I noticed that I was not merely thinking. I was talking. The old man was sitting there, smiling. “Now you see what imagination and belief come to,” he said. “These make life convenient. Even if you have to deny things which are quite obvious.”

 

“So how would you read time, without getting into this,” I somehow managed to ask.  “I don’t. Time cannot be read. If you want to read it, you have to have imagination. Or faith. I have neither. I only know. I know time as it is, free like a bird, not trapped in watches, not stringed in digits, not bound by definitions of forward or reverse directions. What this watch or any watch shows is not time. It is the lifeless shell of trapped time. With it you can play games.  But you cannot live it.”

 

 

 

“Let us quit the valley of stringed sounds. As soon as you have trapped and stringed most of the sounds around, your thought space gets filled with these lifeless stringed sounds. You soon cross over the next pass into the valley of labels. Of course, you carry the trap with you over the pass and ever after till you cross the last pass. The referees had told you to do that.”

 “What happens if you ignore whatever these silly referees say. If you just dump the trap at the first garbage can you come across.”

“You can do that. Then the referees would not let you play the game of rituals. Since most of the  other travellers play this game, you will be very alone. There is a one-in-a-million chance that  you will come across another traveller who has also refused to be a sound trapper and stringer,  who does not give a damn about the referees and their games. If you meet such a traveller, then  you are never alone. Even if this traveller appeared to be with you only for a little while, you  know that such a travelmate is always there. So, if you do not want to go along with these  referees, be on the look out for someone not carrying a trap, not playing a game of rituals. It is  difficult but quite possible to find such a traveller. After all, that one will also be looking for you.

 

“And now let me go on with the rest of the story.

“In this valley the activity is hunting for labels, using labels and recognizing labels. If you fail to do any of these properly, fellow travellers immediately get a doubt that you have dumped your trap.  That you have free sounds around you and in your thought space, creating new thoughts. Then there is a flurry of activity. Referees are called to surround you with rituals so that your thoughts are converted into action as soon as these are born. Your thoughts would seek a friendly dark corner where they can hide from these monstrous rituals. But the referees know about it. So they bombard you with brightness, of light and of their faith. As the thoughts get temporarily blinded with all this brightness, the rituals grab and convert these into action. At the same time, other travellers are busy trapping free sounds around you and stringing them. Soon, there will be no free sounds left, no thoughts will be born and then you will be begging the referees to let you play their games. So, if you have decided to dump your trap, stay away from referees and stay away from other travellers. Just be on the look out for another one like you.”

 “Let us talk about the valley of labels,” I said. “What sorts of labels are these?”

“They are all sorts. You know what labels are for?”

I had seen labels, hundreds of them. On all types of things which came in packs and cans and boxes. Sometimes the label would be stuck on to these, sometimes it will be printed on these.  So far as I knew, these labels were there to give us information about what was inside. Its name, what it contained, how it should be used and so on.

“You are talking of tins and boxes, not travellers. What is a label for if it is put on a traveller?” I had to think. “Well, it could tell the traveller’s name. Where he came from, where he is headed to.”

“Your last two items have common answer for all the travellers on this journey. They all come from the same place and they all are headed for the same place. Would you still place labels on them for describing these items.”

“No,” I said. “The way you put it, one won’t need a label for these. That will be too obvious. Everyone knows it without a label.”

 

“So, if it is self-evident, it does not need a label. What is not so obvious, may need a label.  What is not at all obvious, will certainly need a label. So labels give you what does not come to you on your own. If you know, label is not needed.

 

“Let us see a group of soldiers, all wearing similar uniforms. Suppose the person in command IS a leader. He would stand out, you can spot him without error. But if that is not so, you will have to do something so that he can be identified. Since the fact of his being a leader is not so obvious, the obvious thing to do is to put a label on him. Then, even if he is not a leader, he is accepted as a leader. You see, no one questions labels. It takes so much effort to open and see inside whether the contents match the label, that you decide that you have neither the time nor the inclination.

“On this journey, by the time the travellers cross the first two valleys, they start becoming familiar with lots of fellow travellers. This familiarity is a strange thing. Normally you are not familiar with anyone. Even with yourself. To be familiar, you have to find time, to look all over and inside. When you do that with some fellow travellers, you start doing that with yourself.  That is when you start discovering those thoughts which had hidden themselves in friendly dark corners. Discovery of these thoughts produces life. It even produces free sounds. This will put a stop to the entire work of referees.

“But referees are clever travellers. They designed these labels, so that travellers are always strangers. Only the labels are familiar. These labels are a form of trapped and stringed sounds.  Forms without life. You cannot look inside them for hidden thoughts. They have nothing inside, except lifeless emptiness. So, you cease to see fellow travellers, you see the labels. But these referees are extra cautious. They make a very large number of labels and most of them are stuck on every one around. With minor changes here and there.”

 “But with similar labels on everyone, will the labels not become superfluous?”

 “Yes, these would, if the referees were not so clever. These labels are to be stuck in combinations. So the same labels put in a different combination look different. Once on to the game, travellers start playing with these new found rituals, the new game of making labels, using labels and recognising labels. That is what the travellers think. Actually, they are making, using and recognising combinations of the same labels.”

“After all, how many combinations can there be. If you play the game long enough, will you not become familiar with the combinations?”

“You think so? Let us go back to our soldiers. There are ten soldiers. In a unit each has a different rank. All ten belong to ten units. In no two units, a soldier holds the same rank. So you have a hundred combinations of ten ranks and ten units. What will happen if there are millions of soldiers and millions of units? I Did not tell you that these labels keep changing. If the soldiers were constantly changing there ranks in every unit, there would hardly be any opportunity of becoming familiar. All you become familiar with is that they all seem to be wearing similar labels which somehow all look different.

“Travellers have one label which is common with cans and packs. The name label. Like labels on cans and packs, it also does not change. It cannot be taken off, as if it has been printed on the traveller. This journey could be very long. The traveller becomes so familiar with his name label that he does not remember if he had another identity. His belief in his name-label identity becomes so strong that it becomes an act of faith for him. He lives by the name label, he swears by it. He is even prepared to lose himself than lose this precious name label”

 “If name labels do not change throughout this journey, then travellers must become familiar with not only their own name labels but also the name labels of their fellow travellers.”

 “That is right. One becomes very familiar with the name labels of fellow travellers. A lot of them.  One of the games played with labels is to become familiar with the largest number of name labels. Since every traveller wears so many of other labels, it is not desirable to waste your time looking at these while playing this game. You just concentrate on the name label, ignoring the traveller and everything else about him.”

“OK, you succeeded in becoming familiar with the largest number of name labels. What do you get?” “Another label. In this valley and beyond, whenever you win a game of rituals, you get another label, usually of the changing kind. But sometimes, you get another kind of label, which they call moniker, a sort of nickname. They believe it is a kind of name label. It is supposed to be used together with your name label. So it makes your name label bigger. Sometimes you find a traveller who has succeeded in so many games of rituals, that his name label has become huge with the addition of all these monikers. So huge, that he finds it very inconvenient to travel with it. You would think he would like to dump it or at least a part of it. On the contrary, he would be trying to be the traveller with the biggest name label. That gets him another label.

 “Only some travellers recognise the fact that moniker is not a name label. It can change, can even be dropped. The way it is decreed by the referees, the chances of other travellers gaining a moniker are rather slim. Most of the monikers are gained by the referees themselves. I will tell you more about that later.”

“How do the referees manage to monitor these games throughout this long journey. You said there are a myriad paths. It would be difficult for the referees to station themselves everywhere to judge the winners and to hand out the labels,” I asked.

“Questions and more questions. That is the problem with understanding. You are so obsessed with understanding that you forget that the purpose is to know. Well, O seeker of understanding, I am afraid I cannot give you what you seek. I myself do not understand. But I know that the referees are no special travellers. They are sham. They just put on the robes, and everyone believes they have become referees. This belief gives them the custody of rituals. The only thing these referees have is that they are very clever.

“But in spite of all their cleverness, they cannot cease being what they are, travellers, like others. No, they do not and cannot post themselves everywhere or anywhere because they also travel. They found a clever way of monitoring the games, deciding the winners and sticking the labels.  Their way is to make the travellers do these to each other. They make the travellers believe that they are doing so on behalf of these referees and the other referees they talk about. But there is nothing to it except their cleverness.”

 

My mother was getting really concerned about me. “Look at other boys,” she would say.  “Why can’t you be like them? They come home from the sports meet with arms full of trophies. What you come home with is that lost look on your face. You do not even participate. If you did, maybe, you would win. That is not important. What is important is playing the games.”

I could not ask her why it was important to play the games. She had told me once and I was supposed to remember the answers. Remember the answers as these were told. It is good to ask questions, she had said. It is evil to question the answers. If I could question her answers, our conversation would have been something like this:

Answer: One should play these games because everyone else does.

Question: Not everyone comes home with arms full of trophies. Obviously, only some can.  Otherwise, the trophies will cease to be symbols of achievement. So everyone does not, cannot, do what everyone else does.

Answer: That is silly logic.

(I had learnt recently that everything which cannot be answered by logic currently in fashion is called silly logic. Logic is good if it helps in finding answers to your questions.  Unanswered questions cause discomfort. So, one is expected to adopt convenient logic, rather than that which leaves one uncomfortable.)

Question: Maybe, that is silly. But what do I lose if I do this silly thing. What do I lose if I just sit and think rather than kick a ball around.

Answer: What do you lose if you do something silly? Not much, if you do it once in a while. You do it often and you get known as silly. Then, even if you do something intelligent, they ignore you, believing that nothing good can come from you. Even before you open your mouth, they know that what you are going to say is silly. And if you just sit and think, it is no good. The world is made by deeds, the world is run by deeds. (Imagine the source of these words reprimanding me for what according to her were thoughtless actions. Can’t you think before you did something, she would say.)

 Question: But ‘sitting and thinking’ is harmless. It cannot hurt anyone. Deeds can hurt. Would they go to war if they did not have this love for action?

 

 There were a lot of questions in my mind about the valley of labels. Of course, first the old man had to continue with his account of how the referees make the travellers stick the labels on each other.

“The way their scheme functions is very clever and simple. The labels are divided into two main kinds. These are handed over to all travellers as they enter the valley of labels. They cannot use these labels on themselves. In fact, no traveller can put any label on himself. Not even a name label. You always need another traveller to put the label on you. This first kind of labels is to be put on a fellow traveller when you become familiar with his name label. Throughout the journey, it keeps happening that you spend a part of the journey with a traveller and you become familiar with his name label. As soon as that happens, you fish out a label and stick it on him. He could also do the same with you but he may not always do so.

“There are travellers who take longer in developing familiarity with name labels. They are not able to use all the labels that are given to them. This may annoy the referees. Therefore, these slow players have to speed up as they approach the last pass. Then they spend just a little part of the journey with another traveller and tell themselves that they have become familiar with his name label. They are in such a hurry to finish the stock given to them by the referees. The referees threaten that if a traveller does not distribute enough of his name labels, he would not be allowed to cross the last pass. I know that is a hollow threat. No one can choose whether or when to cross the last pass. Neither for oneself, nor for anyone else.

 “The other kind of labels is distributed in a different way. As the referees themselves keep travelling, they identify some points where lesser number of travellers is likely to reach. Maybe, at the split points leading to these points, the path does not look very inviting. So, most of the travellers take the other branch at the split point. The more unattractive is the branch, the lesser is the number of travellers likely to reach these points. Not that the travellers are deliberately avoiding reaching these points. They are not even aware that the avoided branch would have led to one such point. As the path splits every little distance, the travellers cannot know where they are headed to.

“Anyway, whenever a referee comes across such an isolated spot, he erects a tall sign there. On the sign is painted the label that you get if you happen to pass through that point. If a traveller reaches such a point, he vigorously shakes the sign. Since these are tall signs, travellers on other paths come to know that somebody has reached the label winning point. The winner then continues his journey passing through further split points. As he moves, he keeps shouting, ‘I won, I won.’ The moment another traveller sees him, he puts a label on this winner.

 “I know this is a game designed by the referees so that only a few travellers get this second kind of labels. They found this as a convenient method of eliminating the rest. But the travellers do not know the trick. They think that the winner must have done something special to have reached the winning point. In fact, it was by sheer chance that he happened to be there. His own contribution could only be his foolishness in selecting an unattractive path when a better choice was available.

“The winners tell tall stories of their exploits in reaching the winning point. They tell of the difficulties encountered on those paths. They tell of their cleverness by which they chose the correct path at every split point so that they could reach the winning point. They tell how sure they were of reaching there, how for a long time in advance they had studied the way paths split and how they could tell with certainty that a particular path would lead to their goal. All made up stories. On these myriad split points, you never make a choice for a goal. You just move along.

 “But other travellers listen to a winner and develop faith in their own capacity to choose paths leading to the winning point. They start walking faster, in a hurry to reach there so that they can get a label. They even start picking the unattractive paths. But it is only at a few split points that one path is clearly more attractive than the other. At most of the points, they look similar.  Therefore, even if you deliberately choose an unattractive path, you cannot be sure that you are on the way to a winning point. But their faith is so strong, they keep trying, thinking, analysing, discussing, evolving formulae. And making their journey unpleasant by all this and by selecting the unattractive paths. All for the sake of labels beckoning them from the high sign poles put up by the referees.”

“How do they distribute the monikers?” I asked. “At least for earning these labels the traveller would be required to do something special.”

“Even now you think a traveller can choose to do something. I told you that on this journey there are no choices. Except of thought. But most of the travellers forego even that choice by letting their thoughts be grabbed and converted into action. So the travellers cannot choose to do anything, ordinary or special. Things just happen. However, because the referees say that these are achievements, the travellers develop a faith that they have done it.

 “The referees want the monikers to look very special, very difficult to obtain. So they have devised a method by which some travellers will certainly get a moniker but very few will get it.  You see, a label loses its relevance if everyone gets it or no one gets it. The referees do not give these monikers to the travellers to distribute. The referees themselves carry the monikers.

“Their method for distributing these monikers is quite similar to the method for distributing the second kind of labels. A traveller happens to reach the winning point. He shakes the tall sign pole vigorously so that everyone in a large area around knows that someone has achieved. Then the winner continues the journey shouting, ‘I won, I won’. If he comes across another traveller, he is given a label of the second kind and the matter is over. However, if the first traveller he comes across after winning happens to be a referee, then the winner is given a moniker. So most of the winners get a label of the second kind, while very few get a moniker. The difference is not in what the winner has done. He could not have done anything even to get a label. The difference is only in the chance that a referee was there at the right time.”

“Do these referees also get labels and monikers. They must be getting so familiar with these that they might be considering these as useless.”

“Quite to the contrary. Having convinced the travellers that these are signs of achievement, they know that they should have more labels than other travellers if they are to be held in awe.  Getting labels of the first kind is no problem. The robes of the referees are so distinct that as soon as a traveller sees a referee he knows that he is familiar with his name label. So the traveller puts a label of the first kind on him. Thus the referees are covered from hand to foot with these labels.

“At times it does appear that they have had enough of these labels, and they would want to put a stop to this silly business. But that would amount to admitting that the whole business was silly in the first place. So the referees put up with it as best as they can. But the travellers seem to draw immense satisfaction from sticking a label on a referee. Throughout the day one will tell other travellers of this achievement. In fact, his constant narration of this achievement may make him familiar to many. Then they all stick labels on him.

“The referees never stick labels of the first kind on anyone. They never admit that they have become familiar with another traveller’s name label. Unless that other traveller is a referee. But getting lots of labels of the first kind is not good enough for a referee. He has to have more labels of the second kind and more monikers than ordinary travellers. These can be obtained only by sheer chance. The chances are no better for the referees than for ordinary travellers. So they cheat.

“In the first place, the referees had these labels of the second kind. They do not distribute all these to the travellers. They hide some of these in their robes. Whenever a referee meets another, one of them starts shouting, ‘I won, I won’. The other referee quickly takes out a label of the second kind and puts it on this referee before any other traveller notices it. The travellers had heard the shouts. When they see the label on the referee, they presume that a passing traveller would have stuck it. They believe that referees do not carry these labels.

 “Of course, travellers had not seen the sign pole shake. But they have so much faith in these referees that they tell themselves that they must have missed it. In fact, they reprimand themselves for missing such an important event, the shaking of the sign pole by a referee.”

 “But how would the referees get more monikers. Travellers know that only referees have these. They cannot cheat about monikers,” I asked feeling very clever.

 “Oh, you think so. There is no end to the cleverness of these referees. They can cheat about anything. They survive by cheating. They wait for a chance when a referee happens to meet another and a sign pole is being shaken at some distance by some other traveller. The pole has to be at such a distance that the shaking pole can be seen but the shouts of the winner cannot be heard. That winner would take some other path. He would be given a label by some traveller there. But one of these referees, standing at a safe distance where the shouts of the winner cannot be heard, starts shouting, ‘I won, I won’. The other referee then, in full view of travellers, sticks a moniker on this fake winner. There is a lot of excitement around. Everyone keeps talking about the referee winning a moniker. Those who claim being present at the event soon become familiar to a lot of travellers. All of these stick labels on the witnesses.”

There was a long spell of silence. I presumed that the old man was tired and he was taking a break. Honestly, I also wanted a break. The methods of these referees left me a little disgusted.  If I ever go on this journey, I am going to expose these referees, show them for the cheats that they are. Did the old man ever try to expose them? And did he ever get any labels? After all, sometimes by sheer chance he would have passed through a winning point. In any case, his appearance was not common. Travellers would have stuck labels of the first kind on him.

 His eyes were closed. He might have dozed off. He had never done that before. I had always wondered if he ever slept. He had that fixed stare, did not even appear to bat his eyelids. I touched him on the arm to see if he would wake up. He appeared to have fever. I was being called because it was meal time. I rushed inside, brought a blanket and covered him. When I returned after eating, he was gone. The blanket was lying there, in the shape of the old man, as if he had evaporated out of it.

 

It was almost a year since I had seen him. Once in a while I would dig out the note-book in which I had written his story. I would see the old man smiling through its pages. So, you are still trying to understand this story, he would appear to be saying. I would immediately shut my eyes. I knew that way he could talk to me better. 

“Now that you know it, it is true. Yes, I can talk to you better when your eyes are closed.  Open eyes are an invitation to light to enter and disturb your thoughts. Then I cannot read them properly.” His words were absolutely clear, though it did appear that he was not close by.

“Do you remember when you were very small, you would close your eyes when you were afraid. And people around telling you that children are afraid of the dark. If it were so why would they cut off light by closing their eyes when they are afraid. No child is afraid of the dark though most of the grown-ups are.”

This was surprising. “Why are grown ups afraid of the dark?”

“Grown ups live by their beliefs. The beliefs are based on the way they have seen. Seen in light. What they have seen is all deception. They sometimes even know that they are perceiving deceptions. But they become so familiar with deceptions that they feel comfortable with these. By the time they become grown-ups, it is the absence of these deceptions which scares them. That is why they don’t like darkness, even in their dreams.  If they dream of darkness, they wake up, quite scared.”

 

He came back considerably weaker. I am sure he had been quite ill. But he would not talk about it. He talked so little about himself. “That is not important,” he would say with a wave of his hand.

“I did try to tell the travellers that these referees are pretenders,” he said in reply to the question  which had waited in my mind for more than a year. “But that was much later in this valley. The valley of labels is so big that it spans most of the rest of this journey. Except the last bit. There are small passes on the way as I will tell you later. But those are in a way within this valley.

 “Another kind of labels in this valley are called stage labels. The referees say that there is an average length of this journey. I do not understand what they mean by this average length.  Perhaps it is another ritual. They do not measure it in terms of distance. They measure it in terms of time. Perhaps because they are in great awe of time and confer great honour on it. You see, space can be manipulated. But time manipulates everything, even space. Everything, except thoughts. Referees make no use of thoughts. To them, time is the greatest.

 “This average length of the journey measured in time is considerable. No one in his senses would like to keep travelling for so long. But these referees know how to make the travellers agree with them even for the most absurd things. They have floated a belief that longer you travel on this journey, greater is your achievement. If you cross over the last pass before the average, you are a failure. If you continue for considerably longer than that, you are a winner.

 “As I told you, this is all meaningless. On this journey there are no choices. Except of thought. Once you start on this journey, you cannot decide whether to cross over the last pass sooner or later. But the referees are able to convince the travellers that it is in their hands. They further tell  them that if they play the games of rituals regularly and properly, they will travel longer than the average length.

“The referees designed these stage labels to convince travellers of these silly ideas. When a traveller has completed, say, half of this silly average, he starts shouting, ‘I won, I won’. Then the nearest traveller sticks a long thin label on the winner. In fact, the travellers are so keen to get these stage labels, that they keep looking at their watches and calendars, wary that they may miss the precise moment of completion of half of the average length. They do not want to get the label a moment later. There are a lot of stages like one-tenth, two- seventh, three-eighth, four-fifth etc. I do not understand how the referees fixed these stages. I only know that they have no meaning. But at every stage you get a stage label.

“Whenever the referees come across a traveller with a lot of stage labels, the referees proclaim loudly that this traveller has been rewarded for playing the games of rituals regularly and properly. Everyone around applauds and looks at the winner with envious eyes. For a long time the travellers keep talking about the great merit of the winner. They all tell themselves that they will play the games of rituals more regularly and properly, so that one day a referee will see them with lot of stage labels and will praise them. Most of all they wait for the moment when others will look at them with envious eyes.”

 

“Well,” he said the next time he came around. “I have to tell you whether I tried to expose the referees. I did. Quite early in the journey. The other travellers were amused. ‘You have to have a few stage labels before you can say anything about anything and be heard by others.  Therefore, for the moment keep travelling and keep listening to what the referees and stage label wearers say. That is the way to learn, to understand. Why should anyone listen to you when you yourself do not understand. You say that we should listen to you because you know. We do not understand knowing. Referees never told us about it. If it was important, they would have told us about it. After all, they are so clever. They understand everything.’

 “After that I never tried to tell the travellers anything. They lived in the world created for them by the referees. I lived in my world. I did not understand theirs. They did not know mine. 

“I have talked enough about the valley of labels. Within this valley there are small passes.  Across these passes are valleys which are part of the valley of labels. But each of these valleys is so distinct that these are called by different names. One of them is called the valley of fragrance. I would rather call it the valley of daydreams.

“As you enter this valley, you suddenly feel the change in air. The air smells fragrant. It appears there are flowers somewhere nearby. Your feet go lighter. You think you are floating on air.  Nothing seems to matter. You forget the trapped sounds, the labels, the referees. If you hear a bird sing, you break into a song with it. You think that the bird is singing your song. You suddenly believe that you had travelled so far only to come here. You believe that you are not going to travel any further. This is the destiny, the very purpose of being a traveller. The last pass is nowhere in sight. No one is playing the games of rituals. There appear to be strange thoughts swirling in your head, life surging through your body. I am living, you proclaim loudly.  The sound echoes from invisible walls. You hear the echo. It is nice to hear your own voice. You do not see the walls which produce the echo.

“The echo disturbed me. It made me know that there were walls around, that this feeling of freedom was an illusion, a trap. The walls around could mean only one thing. One is going to lose freedom, in some unknown way. However, I kept my thoughts to myself. I had decided to keep my thoughts to myself after the travellers had refused to heed my words about the referees. If they did not know the referees, it was no use expecting them to know the invisible walls which produced the echo.

“But for the moment, the travellers looked a happy lot. They appeared pink and fresh as if they had just started on this journey. Romping around, they seemed to be gliding gracefully. I knew that there was something which the eyes were missing. So I closed my eyes and there was a strange sight. The travellers had thin wings on their shoulders. Unusual sparkling thin wings like wisps of air with jewels stuck on them. I wonder if I can explain these to you in words.”

 “But I know,” I assured him. “These wings must have been like a spider’s web early in the morning, bright with dew drops.”

“You are quick with examples. Yes, the travellers appeared to be flying. I was sure they were flying. Effortlessly, humming their happy tunes. Even I wanted to believe they would always be like that. That there would be no walls to restrain their flight. I knew that when these happy winged travellers will be restrained, these thin bright wings would be torn in an instant. For the first time I wanted to believe that what I knew was wrong.

“Thus, I developed doubts whether I really knew. These gracefully gliding travellers with their wings were real, there was no doubt about it. Otherwise, how could I see them with closed eyes. Was I going to deny all this just because I knew that there were walls around. So what if there were walls. Maybe, the walls have openings. If you can fly in and out at will then these are no walls. Even if you hear the echo. I almost decided to close my eyes again to see if I too had the wings on my shoulders.

“It was then that I spotted the wizard. ‘Please close your eyes and tell me if I have the wings,’ I pleaded. ‘No, you don’t have,’ said the wizard. ‘Nor do these other travellers have any wings.’ I was annoyed. ‘But I saw with my closed eyes,’ I protested. ‘You cheated’, he said as he branched off at a split point.”

“I cheated? How could I cheat?” The old man was wondering aloud.

 “You might not have closed your eyes tightly enough,” I said remembering how the old man had cheated in the games with the playmate clouds.

“Maybe, you are right. Maybe, I wanted to see the wings on their shoulders. So I must have left a little slit so that light could sneak in and show me the illusion. No doubt the wings looked so misty and bright with jewels on them. As you said, like a spider’s web with dew drops on it. If my eyes were really shut, these should have looked absolutely clear.

 “Anyway, at that time I did not believe the wizard about the travellers. He must be right that I did not have wings, I reasoned. But I had seen the wings on the shoulders of the travellers, wizard or no wizard.

“During their ecstatic flights, the travellers would pass one another and smile and wave. No more paths with their myriad split points for them. No more shaking of sign poles to collect a label. Just endless, aimless gliding around, living and loving this fragrance. Once in a while two travellers will come headlong at each other, as if intent on colliding. As they approached they would stretch their hands and their fingertips would touch. This fragrance is beautiful, one would whisper, as if afraid that a loud sound may damage the wings. Yes, it is, the other would agree.  As beautiful as the touch of our fingers. Then they would glide apart, happy to know about the fragrance, about the touch. For the present that was what they wanted, unlike the other parts of this journey where they would have insisted on understanding.

“The ecstasy of the travellers lasts for sometime. Then they seem to revert to their old ways.  One of them says, ‘Why am I gliding aimlessly. This fragrance is so good. I cannot think of travelling without it. What if I glide to a far off place where this fragrance is not there. I may never be able to come back. I may not even be able to glide. I started gliding only in the area of this fragrance. Removed from this area, I would be back on the paths and their myriad split points. If I can somehow locate and capture the source of this fragrance, then I need never be without it. Then I can glide throughout the journey and even thereafter.’

 “So far, the referees had been silently waiting for their chance. This fragrance had changed their captive travellers into rebels. The moment this traveller thinks of hunting and capturing the source of the fragrance, the referees shout, ‘Brave travellers, here is a new game for you. The reward is for a lifetime, the label of labels. Go and capture the source of fragrance.’

 “The hunt begins. Hunt for the friendly fragrance which gave such happy moments to these travellers. One would have thought that they would wish that the fragrance would continue for ever, blessed be its source with eternal life. That every traveller may find solace and peace in this fragrance. Quite to the contrary. The travellers now want to hunt the source of this fragrance, trap it and wear it. Like a label. They want to trap the fragrance and shout ‘I won’.  Then they want to see the envious looks of other travellers.”

STORY OF THE BUTTERFLY

There are butterflies and butterflies. But like everything else in the world, each one is so different from all others that it appears to be rather funny to class them together. OK, all pass through the phases of life. Some pass through a few of them, others see a lot. For some of them the entire life is the caterpillar phase. Crawling all the time, chomping all the time. Life is an endless crawling, chomping affair. Endless, till life itself ends, underfoot or in a beak. And that is all about such a colourless life. 

Then there is the kind which is impatient. Impatient to ‘make’ most of life, impatient for the kick which you are supposed to get when you can flit around or flirt around. From caterpillar to chrysalis to full grown, it zooms without stopping to look at itself. If you asked what it was to be in those earlier phases, it is likely to say, “Oh! I really do not know. I was in such a hurry to be a grown up.” Once a grown up it leads its life as hurriedly. Jumping from flower to flower, tasting sap at a million landings, with its legs smudged from the pollen of countless stamens, it leads a fast dangerous life till it lands in the collector’s net or in a hungry beak.

But there was this butterfly, the only one of its kind. Yes, it had its crawling and chomping phase. It did grow into a plump crawling, chomping thing. Over the walls and the branches it crawled, tumbling here, toppling there. But it was no waiting game. That had to come later. Just now it was the only happy period this butterfly was going to see for a long time. Then one day it became aware of the changes coming over its body.  Immediately, it made an invisible chrysalis around it. Inside its self-made shell, the butterfly blossomed. There was not a bright colour in the world, not an enchanting hue that it did not have. The beautiful butterfly lay curled in its chrysalis watching the world. And the world wondered. Why does this image of perfection not spread its wings and soar in the sky? They did not know about its self-made shell, the invisible chrysalis.  So they wondered. Why does it not fly at the flowers spread around it? Flowers that sometimes appeared to live just this bit longer in the hope that this butterfly would come out of its shell and would brush past one of them, if not actually land there.

 Not that the butterfly did not have its dreams. In fact, dreams were all that she had, hordes of them. One would think she was made of dreams. Maybe, she herself was a dream. She had a dream about a flower. No, her flower would be no ordinary flower.  How could it be? This was no ordinary butterfly. Her flower would be the one which may not look or smell the greatest, but it would have a feel like no other. Once it landed on that flower, the butterfly mused, she would lose herself in a way that she would be able to find herself. Her flower would be like a mirror showing her the colours, the vibrant colours which only she had.

And she waited in her shell for this unusual, unlikely flower to appear. 

Once it looked as if it was there. The butterfly was very excited. It had not known flowers. It had only dreamt about them. How would I know whether it has the feel I have been waiting for, unless I let him come closer, she thought. For once she ceased to be created by her dreams but tried to create herself through her imagination.

 She let the flower inch closer till it actually touched her. Again the feeling was so new that for sometime she was lost in the adventure of it. But she did not emerge from the shell. Still encased, everyday she nestled closer and closer to the flower when all of a sudden the shock came. The flower did not have a feel. It had an invisible mask which had created the illusion. As the mask grew older it faded, becoming visible with each passing moment. The butterfly tried to pull back. But it was stuck. The flower tried to remove the chrysalis. But it could come off only with that feel for which the butterfly had dreamt. So both failed and lived a million miles away from each other while stuck together.

Years passed. Both, butterfly and the flower, gradually were getting used to being stuck together while being so far away. The butterfly still had its dream. Dream about a flower which would have the unusual feel which could rip off her shell, could liberate her from this self-imposed prison. Finally, she started telling herself that dreams are dreams. They are there without being there. Since she was made of dreams, she started denying her own existence also and waited for the hungry beak. Again, something happened. There appeared another flower nearby. It promised a lot of promises. It did not look grand, it did not smell grand. But it did have a grand promise. Even a grand promise of a grand feel. And the promise had something unusual about it. It reached to tear the chrysalis.  Before the surprised butterfly could recover from the shock, this flower had ripped apart the shell. The butterfly was crying. The flower was all kindness, kind and caring. Look, he said, I am just a flower. Feel me. Maybe, I have the feel you dreamt of. 

Cautiously, the butterfly spread her wings. It was the first time she had come out of the shell. It looks like a great feeling, she thought, again letting her imagination overtake her thoughts. She surged through the air, naively thinking it was the breath of the flower. She marvelled at the bright blue sky thinking it was the reflection of the colours of this flower. She let her imagination go wild. And as she imagined, she let her feelings, her dreams, the tired dreams of a score years, go into a slumber.

But dreams have a light sleep. They would wake up every now and then and disturb her imagination, the imagination that she made up about this flower. You are a fool, the dreams would plead. You have not known the feel of this flower. You have only imagined how his feel would be. Let us tell you about his feel. But the butterfly would refuse to listen. She would even shout at the dreams. You are mere dreams, she told them. You never live in life. Go and bury yourself somewhere. Let me live with what I think is here and now. And what I think I waited for all these years. The dreams were very hurt. They drugged themselves and went into deep sleep. Not that the butterfly was happy having hurt these companions of a score years. But she believed that she saw hope in that flower.  Even when she knew there was no hope.

With wings spread wide, she landed into the flower and screamed with pain and anguish.  No, this flower was not without a feel as was the previous one. But it had a feel of a different kind. It was a cactus flower.

The concealed thorns tore at her heart and soul, they shredded her wings. Lying beaten and limp on the ground, she moaned. Why? Why did he do it? There was no answer. She asked loudly. She asked softly. There was no answer. She tried to find an echo from the depth of ocean of pain, but there was none. She tried to scale the walls of sorrow enclosing her but she felt drained of all strength. She tried to wake up the dreams but they had fallen outside the high walls of sorrow surrounding her. She could only hear the soft whimpers of these dreams from across these walls.

The cactus flower was nowhere to be seen. It was on its way to enticing another butterfly.  But he was in for a lesson. Other butterflies were already out of the chrysalis. They had seen cactus flowers before. They would make the cactus flower roll in dust begging for their touch. And their macabre games would go on.

This butterfly tried to patch up its heart, soul, wings. And remained that, a patchwork.  The patchwork remained drowned in its sorrowful questions. Why, it kept asking. And there was no answer. The dreams lying across the wall knew the answer. But they were across the wall of sorrow and she had no strength to cross the wall.

 She was again getting reconciled to her forlorn condition when the ground started shaking under her feet. What now, she wondered. She had grown wary of all flowers. But it appeared that a volcano was waking up under her feet. A strange volcano it was. It spewed lava and ash all right but it did not burn. Instead, it buried the high walls of sorrow under a thick layer of ash. As the butterfly was level with the dreams, they rushed into her again, becoming her and making her. She felt a little alive, a little stronger. 

As she strolled on the layers of ash with the dreams inside her, she rained tears. And the ash hardened. Warily, she watched a little plant grow in that ash and bear, of all things, a flower.

The butterfly herself had undergone a change. The volcano had warmed her heart and soul. It had burnt the shredded wings and new wings were growing fast in their places.  The butterfly had a spring in her steps and there was spring in the air. Even the dreams inside her seemed to be affected by these changes. They would steal out, ruffle her hair or brush her temple with their fingers and whisper, “Be happy.” What is happiness, she wondered, as she smiled at the antics of these naughty little dreams. And then she wondered:  why am I smiling? Perhaps this is happiness.

 

 “You imagined this story, didn’t you? Nobody would do that to a butterfly,” I asked handing over the yellowing papers to him when he appeared the next time. He took these reluctantly as if these were a burden he was happy to have passed on to me. I was somewhat wrong when I had concluded that he never carried anything. He had carried these papers all along after the valley of fragrance.

“In the valley of fragrance, I did imagine. I believed. I even hoped, that the travellers would  continue in that blissful state. But I did not imagine this story. This is more or less as it happened. With almost every traveller, one after the other. Except the last part of the story. That was just to make myself happy. The last part was rather uncommon. What you saw everywhere, were travellers with shredded wings, back on the paths with the split points. Travellers reminiscing about the days when they could glide. Travellers carrying the trapped source of fragrance.

 “It is a strange trap. It is very heavy. It needs two to carry it. I do not know who designed it.  But whosoever did it, he was up to no good. He made the trap heavy so that it took two to trap the source of fragrance. Alone, one traveller could hunt for the source. But after he had found it, he had to look around for another traveller who could help him in this sad venture. Lifting this heavy trap and trapping the source in it was quite a job, even for two. But the trap has only two handles. So the two could not ask anyone else to help.

“By the time they finish the job, they are quite exhausted, wondering how and why they got into it. The hunter gets the label. One who was enticed into helping gets nothing, except a feeling of being tired. But now they have no choice. Having trapped the source of fragrance, they have to carry the trap throughout the journey. The referees had decreed it. The travellers feel tired, dejected, hateful of the referees. But scared of them, more than ever before. ‘We felt free of the referees once and look at us. This is the punishment for offending the referees. If we had behaved, the referees would have given us a light trap. Then we would have carried this source of fragrance always with such comfort.’

“Then they take a look at the source of fragrance in the trap. It was still. There was no fragrance. Perhaps there was no source either. There was an empty shell, devoid of its life, the fragrance. The travellers feel as devoid of life. ‘This is what we got for all our troubles,’ they say. ‘This valley is a cursed place. Let future travellers beware. This is a valley of misery, a valley of deception. There is no source. Don’t get carried away by your imagination. Don’t try to trap.  The only thing that is going to be trapped is you. Trapped into carrying this heavy trap, holding it with your partner, throughout the rest of the journey.’

“There are no future travellers around to listen to their self-pity. The future travellers are enjoying  their gliding in the fragrance, some are hunting for the source, some are seeking help to trap it. There is no hope for most of them.”

“For most of them,” I said. “That means there is hope for some of them.” I was feeling very concerned for the travellers. They have had trouble since they left the valley of clouds. When they had no trouble in the valley of fragrance, they decided to create some for themselves by going after the source. If ever I go on this journey, I am going to straighten out a few things there.

 

“Yes,” he said, “Some travellers are very lucky. Some of them do not enter the valley of  fragrance at all. As I said, this is a valley within the valley of labels. Some of the paths skirt this  valley. If you happen to take such paths at the split points, you miss the temporary happiness of gliding. But you also escape the misery which is likely to last till the last pass.

“Even among those who do get stuck with the traps, some do escape in various ways. There are those who get so fed up with carrying these heavy traps, they think that no misery that the referees can inflict upon them can be greater. It is not only the weight of these traps, it is also the question of both sufferers being together at all times. Since all the time both have to move together, they lose whatever meaningless choice they had earlier. The choice of a path out of the two at the split points. This was the only choice they ever had. Some of them wanted at least this choice back. Particularly, when they knew that along with regaining this choice, they would be getting rid of this useless heavy trap.

 

I was growing up. It had been more than two years since I had first met the old man.  Three months since I met him last. After every meeting, there would be some change in me. So far, I had only an aversion for people who kept on telling others as to what they should do, how they should live. After the last visit, I had developed a conviction that such meddlers must be stopped by all means. The old man had not succeeded in persuading the travellers about the real motives of the referees. Maybe, one could talk to these referees. If they were as wicked and as clever as the old man made them out to be, then? Only the old man could tell.

Meanwhile, I was having increasing trouble with the referee at hand - my mother. She had prescribed a strict schedule for me. Idleness was causing all my problems, she had concluded. If I do not get time to sit and brood, I will not sit and brood. She could not think of any other reason for it, or any other remedy. Make me busy and my mind will be so busy with the things I do that there will be no room for the things I think.

 “Another problem with you youngsters these days is that you have too many choices. So much decision making is left to your immature brains that there is ample scope for messing up everything. No, I will not let that happen to MY children. After all, I am responsible for your PROPER development. If you do not come up to everybody’s expectations, I am going to get the blame. I am not taking any chances. From now on, this is the schedule you will live by. You will grow up into a young man everybody will be proud of”

Yes, I will come up to everybody’s expectations. Everybody will be proud of me. But what about MY expectations? If I want to be a thinking man and I end up as a doing man, will I be proud of myself? Do I count anywhere? But they do not like to be questioned, not about their answers.

 

“Once I did try to convince the travellers about the real colour of these referees. But later in the journey I knew something else. I thought I was right. The referees thought they were right. I thought I had the right to decide who is right. They thought they had this right. Where does it lead to? That I was thinking like the referees. Not a pleasant thought. After that I decided to leave them alone. You are also talking of meddling with the meddlers. That makes you a meddler. Do you like that?”

I did not and admitted that much. “But can one do nothing to help the travellers?”

 “One cannot do much to help even oneself. Except, when you are in the valley of stringed sounds and you are not a trapper and stringer, you can be on the look out for another one like you. One who is not carrying a trap for the free sounds. But beware! There are false ones around, quite a lot of them. Once they know that you are looking for someone not carrying a trap, they can conceal the trap. You start travelling with such a traveller. At every split point, the partner would appear to be making an independent choice and making the same choice as you do. So you travel together. You feel you have found the true one. It was supposed to be so rare. You feel grand.

“The game is out when you reach the valley of fragrance. Your partner then hunts for the source.  You had travelled together for so long, that now you make the same choice as the partner.  Once the partner has found the source, you are at hand. At a feeble call for help, you pitch in.  Having travelled together so far, having believed that you make identical choices, you could not refuse. So you help in trapping the source, and you carry with your partner the heavy trap.

 

 “If you do not want to end up like that, look around carefully for hidden sound traps. See that there are free floating sounds about the partner. If there are not, there is a trap hidden somewhere. Do not hurry with your decision. But take a decision before you enter the valley of fragrance. In the valley of fragrance, the decision is made for you, if you have not already taken one.

 

“Let me tell you about another valley in the valley of labels. This is the valley of circular paths.  You could cross over to it from the valley of fragrance. If you have skirted the valley of fragrance, chances are that you will not enter this valley. You will then go to the valley of peace.  We shall talk about that later.

“In the valley of circular paths, the progress is slow, though you travel a lot. You move on a circular path for a long time, looking for a split point, so that you could get on to another path.  There are split points everywhere, as on other paths. But these are concealed. Some of these may be covered with grass, others with sand. Somewhere the path passes through a pool of water. When you come out of it, you have already passed the split point. Of course, you do not know that there are as many split points as in other valleys. You see so few. You believe that in this valley you do not have the choice you had in other valleys, that of choosing at the split points. The choice is as much, but you do not know that it is there.

 “Some travellers get so convinced that there are no split points, that they start calling these circular paths as traps. ‘When I was trapped on that circular path, you know, I had lost all hope,’ one would be heard saying later. Another, still in it would be pleading to a passing referee, ‘I have been in this trap for as long as I can remember. Please help me get out of it and go ahead on this journey. I have always played the games of rituals. I will always play in future.’ The referee just smiles and goes away. The traveller feels that the referee is pleased. He will soon be out of this trap. Whenever he is able to detect a split point, he attributes it to the help given by the referee. Some time later, the traveller finds that at the split point he has chosen the path that leads into another circular path. Soon, he finds himself pleading to another passing referee.”

“What about the referees? Are they not trapped on these circular paths?”

 “Sure they are. Like other travellers. After all, they are like other travellers. However, the referees are clever. Rather than moan their being on these circular paths, they tell themselves that they have chosen to be there. They even believe that these are rituals. The game of going around these paths will bring great merit to the travellers. They institute labels for going around any path, a hundred times, a thousand times and so on. So convinced are the referees of the need to go around these paths that they seriously work for getting these labels. They stop looking for the split points, so that they can go around the required number of times. Even if a split point is seen, a referee will tell himself, ‘I can make a choice at the split point. Let me choose the path which takes me into the circular path again. After a few more rounds, I will get the new label. Why miss it.’

“The number of such travellers, who did not pick up a sound trap and found another one like them or who were once carrying the source trap but were able to get rid of it, keeps increasing.  Most of such travellers have partners. Travelling with a partner with whom you do not have to carry a heavy trap is fun. You feel free like a bird and still have a partner. You do not lose your choice at the split points. Not like those who carry the trap. They are forced to make identical choices at every split point. They keep complaining about their loss of choices. More so because one of them had decided to hunt for the source and had enticed the other into trapping and carrying it.

“But these partners without the trap have not lost their choices. It is a different matter that they make identical choices. If at a split point they decided to make different choices, they could do so without difficulty. But travelling together without having to carry the trap gives them so much happiness, that they do not like the idea of getting separated. They never say, ‘I choose this path.’ This way the other one would also have to choose the same or they will have to separate.  These free birds do not like to do either. As they approach a split point, they cling to each other, close their eyes and start walking. Naturally, they choose the same path. After they have moved onto the new path, they open their eyes, happy that they are together again. Ultimately, by choosing one path or the other, you do not choose to go anywhere. So their choice with closed eyes is as good as any. It may be even better than others. After all, you see more with closed eyes.

“These free partners seem to be bringing a change in the journey. They do not bother much about the referees. Travelling together for so long with free hands, they have devised their own games. They do not mind going round the circular paths. They do not mind getting out of these.  Travelling together is so much fun that every path is fun. The other travellers look at these free partners with envious eyes. They are still afraid of the referees. But they become increasingly critical of them. ‘These referees do nothing except collect labels. They never bother about the travellers’ comfort. I pleaded with him to help me out of the circular path, and he just smiled and went away,’ one would say. Another would comfort him, ‘The referees are clever. They know what they are doing. It must be for our good. Since we do not know any better, let us believe in them. After all, we have come so far playing their games. They tell us that for a long time travellers have passed through these valleys, playing their games. It has been tried for so long.  Maybe, this is the only way.’

“But, in any case, the travellers do not admire the referees as much as they did initially. When a referee gets a label for going around a path a large number of times, most of the travellers do not applaud. Only those do who are aspiring to become referees. Of course, the other referees applaud. However, even the referees cannot go on travelling along a circular path for ever. Even in the valley of circular paths, the travellers keep moving ahead, though slowly. On this journey, you cannot stop travelling, you cannot speed it up. Referees keep avoiding a choice of paths which would take them out of a circular path. But the paths at split points are faint or concealed.  So the referees sooner or later make a mistake, taking a path which leads them out of the circular path. It is not immediately evident. By the time the referee comes to know that he failed to achieve the required number of rounds in the circular path, he is already past several split points. Going back is impossible.

 

I had been seeing her everyday since she was born. I remember going to see her with my mother. They all said she looked very beautiful. She looked rather plump to me. And a little strange. She would smile without reason. She would smile when her eyes would be closed. I was five. I smiled when I was happy or amused. Was she happy at being born?  Or amused?

I remembered the valley of clouds as I watched her. When she was smiling with closed eyes, would I be able to know what she was seeing if I closed my eyes. No harm in trying.  It cannot hurt her.

“Hello, playmate,” she said as soon as I closed my eyes. “I had been waiting for you to cross over to this world. I wanted to tell you a little story. The story will be lost once I open my eyes. So listen to it. It might be your story.”

“It was warm and dark till that little eternity ago. Warm and secure. It appeared that it will always be like that. Only when you lose your anchor, you realise the worth of it.  There is nothing like being securely anchored in a warm place. There is a temptation to call it your own. A temptation to believe it will always be like that.

 “Darkness is so comforting. It can become a close friend. Familiar and close like your own self, which is the greatest darkness of them all. Comfortable certainly the self is.  Like nothing else. I was with myself in darkness. That was comfort indeed. 

“I remember a thing called light. I think I saw it just before anchoring myself in. I remember it as a destroyer of the darkness. With that it destroyed the friend called self. It made you part of everything else. In the darkness you can spin your own web, make your own shell. But light smashes these webs and shells forcing you to share every space. If light enters your thought space, you have to share even that. And then there is no place, no dark corner to hide your very own thoughts, unshared thoughts.

 “I remember people spreading light through something they called Truth. They talked about it, they wrote about it. They used these words in air and on paper to smash the comforting darkness, to smash the webs and shells anyone made in the company of oneself. The floating words spread light in every web and shell through this thing called Truth. I remember the old man who moved around with this mysterious darkness around him. Proclaiming that Truth itself is a darkness. Almost like the darkness of self. And as invisible. But there the similarity ended. Truth is not comforting. It disturbs. It is borrowed. Thrusting others on you.

“But they jeered at the old man. These people destroying darkness. These people talking and writing about the invisible Truth. To destroy the comforting darkness. They jeered at the old man for revealing the disturbing darkness of the Truth. Truth which these people used to smash the friendly darkness.

“This Truth is very dangerous. Everyone has his own Truth. Everyone except those who hide in a web or a shell in friendly darkness. And different people have a different Truth, unfriendly to others and their Truth. People fight for their Truth, against others’. Even kill while fighting for their Truth. That is why friends of darkness do not understand these lovers of Truth. They are scared of them, they hide from them. Lest these lovers of Truth smash them and their friendly web.

“These lovers of Truth sometimes called their Truth as THEIR god. So there are as many gods as there are truths. And there are as many truths as there are lovers of this disturbing Truth. These gods are disturbing too. They enjoy fighting among themselves.  And they enjoy making their followers fight. They want their followers to fight till all other gods and their followers are destroyed. But new truths, new gods, new followers keep springing up from their dust. And the fighting, killing goes on.

 “What sorts of gods are these, the old man would ask. Do gods also return to dust? Some dust this is where the followers, Truth and gods, all return. Because they never make a web or shell. They know it will be destroyed in their fight with the followers of other gods.  So they return to dust when they finally rest. And so do their gods. Maybe, the dust is mightier than these gods, mused the old man.

“And what do your gods do in addition to making you fight? Oh, don’t you know. Our god created the universe, they would exclaim. And who created your god to create the universe? And why did he create it, the old man would continue. But when you are a follower of something called Truth, you do not like being questioned about certain things.  Things like your Truth which you call your god. If someone questions these, your god tells you that this someone is the follower of another god and so must be fought and destroyed.

“So they wanted to kill this old man whenever he asked questions about their Truth and their god. They did not realise that the old man knew the friendly darkness so well. He was always surrounded by darkness. These lovers of Truth can see only in light. How could they find the old man securely hidden in the friendly darkness. 

“The lovers of truth invented and sustained THEIR truth and THEIR god through something they called logic. This logic was their breath, their fiery breath. They justified their truth, their god, themselves, almost everything through this logic. Almost everything except when confronted with the old man’s questions about their god. Their logic did not mind the old man’s questioning of other’s gods. It was their task to destroy those other gods. If the questions of the old man weakened those other gods, so much the better. 

“But how could you let anyone question YOUR god, even through logic. So what if your logic cannot tell the old man, and you, about the creator of your god. Wasn’t it enough that your god had told you that such a questioner was bound to be the follower of another god. And so such a questioner must be destroyed. Good lovers of truth would see almost everything through logic. Almost everything except when someone questioned their god. Or suggested that their god was created.

“These lovers of truth, light, god, developed through logic what they called knowledge.  This knowledge was the ultimate goal of life, they proclaimed. So they hurt themselves and hurt others in their quest for knowledge. They made light brighter and brighter to look for knowledge. They thought darkness hides knowledge. So they hated darkness.  They smashed darkness through truth, their truth.

“The old man could move around in this world of lovers of truth because of something he kept on weaving out of darkness. He called it wisdom. It was not a weapon. Those who live in the friendly darkness have no use for weapons. The moment you think of a weapon, your friendly darkness departs, thrusting you in the realm of light, gods, logic and knowledge. There you can have all the weapons. And all the knowledge to make the weapons. And a god exhorting you to use those weapons. Against the followers of other gods.

 

 

The old man opened his eyes and smiled as I finished reading out my story. He had been smiling with closed eyes all along as I was reading it. “You come to know fast,” he said. 

“Let me tell you about a valley where all travellers are happy, at all times. You may call it the valley of peace. Very few paths from other valleys lead to it. But some do lead from every valley. All the paths from this valley lead to the last pass. Once you enter this valley, you know that you are not going anywhere else. You will either travel in this valley or quit it to go over the last pass.

“This valley is like no other valley. No running around, no playing the games, no rituals. No referees either. If a referee happens to enter this valley, he quickly undergoes a change. He throws away his robes. Then he tells fellow travellers, ‘Since I came to this valley, I have known that the referees are wrong. I was so wrong as a referee. Where is happiness in the games of rituals? Where is merit in going round the circular paths? Of what use are the labels? There are none of these here and I am so happy and peaceful. Some of you are lucky. You entered this valley very early in this journey. I am so happy you did. I am happy that I, at least now, have come here. It is good that one does not go out of it anywhere, except to the last pass. So there is no uncertainty. One will continue in this happy state as long as one is going to be here.’

 “There are frequent rest points along the paths. At the rest points, there are fruit trees. There is a water spring. As you pass the rest point, you see a sign: ‘Do not hurry to another place if you know you are happy here.’ You accept the invitation and sit down. You eat some fruit, drink some water and have some sleep. When you get up, you see another sign. You realise that it is the other face of the same sign. It has been turned by the wind. It says: ‘This journey is full of rest points. All equally pleasant.’ Slowly, happily you get up and travel, knowing there is another similar rest point a short distance ahead.”

“Do the travellers play any games of their own, now that they don’t have to play the games of rituals?” I asked.

“Do they? I don’t think so. At least I did not see anyone play any games there. In any case, why would anyone who is happy play games.”

“I do not know much about that,” I said. “I never play any games. My mother keeps scolding me for that. She keeps talking about other boys bringing home arms full of trophies. She says that if you play games, someone always wins. I do not understand that. To me that means that someone always loses. She says that if you play games you become sharp, witty. Then you win more often. Meaning thereby that someone loses more often. What good is being sharp and witty if it makes someone else lose more often. I once asked her if there was a game in which everyone could win. It would be fun to play such a game. She threw up her hands in desperation. ‘You lazy boy, you would never win,’ she said. I was not hurt. What she said meant that I would not make anyone lose.

“She told me that, if for no other reason, I should consider that playing games gives one exercise, one stays healthy. But the birds get so much exercise without playing games. They look so healthy, they never seem to get tired. I enjoy watching them. They would go in circles, one would just swoop down, another would jump from branch to branch, chirping all the while.  I go for my walks alone. It is so pleasant. When I want sounds, I talk, I sing. When I want silence, I immediately get it. I can walk slowly, fast, break into a run, sit down when I want to.  There seem to be all the choices. Not at all like the games. There you have to play by the rules. You have no choice at all. And at the end of it all, someone loses.”

 I suddenly realised that the roles had been reversed. I was doing all the talking and he was listening. And I had paid him a coin for the story. But then, I had never talked like that before, not to anyone, that is. I found that I had started feeling the same in the company of the old man as I felt when I was alone. “How could one feel the same in another’s company as one feels alone?” I almost woke up as I heard myself asking that question. 

The old man was laughing. “I asked you a question and you end up asking ME a question.”

 I had never seen him laugh before. I said so.

“I laugh a lot when I am alone,” he said. “If you laugh when others are around, they think you are playing a game. Such people are not happy. They have to play games to believe that they are happy.

“You see all games are make believe. You perceive another as you know he is not. You project yourself as you know you are not. When you are not alone, you can indulge in this make believe. When you are alone, that is with yourself, you know. There is no room for make believe.”

 

He came back just the next day, looking very happy. Without asking for a coin he started with his story.

“In the valley of peace, people do not play games. But they play a lot. You play with anybody, including yourself. It always gives happiness. You do not have to be afraid that you or someone will lose. There are no losers when you play, but not a game. In the valley of peace, people are playing all the time, mostly with themselves. Happy partners play with each other. Some play with water, others play with the wind. Some play with the clouds and rainbows. Some with birds and animals. Some with free sounds. Some with nothing.”

“With nothing! How do you play with nothing? What is nothing?”

 “Nothing is the only thing you have everywhere at all times. But it will be some time before you know about it. Anyway, when travellers are playing, no one else knows. When you are playing, you don’t want to have spectators. So playing is sort of invisible, like nothing. At least to the open eyes. You see a traveller sitting by himself at a rest point. For all you know, he would be playing. You see two partners walking hand in hand, deep in play. There could even be several of them. Playing does not admit of any rules. So, you can have many partners or none. You can have a partner for a moment or for always. Travellers become particles, of dust, of water, of air.  Travellers become free sounds, travellers become thoughts. Travellers are on the way to becoming nothing.”

This nothing was turning to be rather mysterious. The old man used it to describe what I would not know for sometime yet. My mother used it to show her disdain. “You just sit there doing nothing, just brooding all the time,” she would say. “This way you would grow up to be nothing.  Look at the other boys your age. Some of them are already on the way to becoming something.”

“But not all travellers enter the valley of peace.” He had resumed the story. “Some of them come here from every other valley. A few come straight from the valley of clouds. Some others spend some time in the valley of stringed sounds and then some more in the valley of labels. They glide for a little while in the valley of fragrance and then enter the valley of peace. If they take the paths leading to the trapping and carrying the source of fragrance, they are less likely to enter this valley.

“Most of those who do not enter the valley of peace from other valleys have to pass through a  very difficult valley. I called it the valley of thorns. Oh, journey through this valley is real misery. You are unhappy and you are in pain. Some paths from this valley also take you to the valley of peace. The rest take you towards the last pass. But ever so slowly.

 “The paths in this valley are rough and unmade. These are rocky even though so many travellers walk on these paths. After all, only a few go to valley of peace. All the rest land here on the last lap of this journey. One would think that with so many travellers here, the paths would be polished smooth. But these rocks littering the paths are rather tough. They would wear out travellers in all times. If at all anything happens to the rocks, they become sharper with time.  They say that this valley was not so difficult a long time ago. Then the travellers passed with only some inconvenience. So they moved faster and quickly got into the valley of peace or onto the last pass. Not anymore. When every step is pain on the already sore feet, how can you travel faster. You only wish that you could travel faster. Yes, in this valley you wish for a lot of things.  The only wish that comes true is that you finally cross over to the last pass. But that may be a long time yet.

“Rocks are only a part of your misery here. The place seems to abound in thorny bushes, thorny trees, thorny creepers. You try to walk on the grass to avoid the rocky path, and your feet scream with the pain given by a million thorns. You stretch your hand to pluck a fruit from a tree overhead, and your hand gets stuck in the sharp long thorns. You can’t pull back your hand because the thorns will tear your flesh. You can’t stay in that posture for long. You scream for help. Travellers do help each other in this valley. But there has to be a traveller around who is, for the moment, free of his own troubles. Such a traveller would then come and try to free your hand from the thorny branch. More often than not, by the time he succeeds in doing so, he himself gets stuck. So you try to free him. This painful game continues for a long time.

 “I wondered why the travellers put their hand in trees and bushes and suffer this agony. Maybe, this is a ritual. The referees must have told them to eat some of these fruits and berries every day. If it was not a ritual, they would not insist on plucking these from the thorny branches.  There were so many lying below the trees. Real good ripe ones. But the travellers would not pick up these. They would get bloodied hands but they would pluck from the branches only.  Only referees could make them do such a silly thing.

“Travellers think that even birds and animals have become vicious in this valley. They complain that these creatures are all the time looking for a chance to snatch away their food. They would pick up rocks from the hills and throw these at the birds and animals. Maybe, that is how the paths are littered with rocks.”

“But are the birds and animals really trying to bother the travellers in this valley. It sounds strange. I have not seen birds and animals trying to bother people. It is always the other way round. With traps and baits and chains and cages.”

“Of course, birds and animals do not bother anyone. In the valley of clouds and in the valley of peace, the travellers are so friendly with these. Even in the valley of fragrance, the travellers like them when they are gliding. In the valley of circular paths, though, the travellers have no time for them. But now in this difficult valley, the travellers are in such a miserable state that they do not like anything. Not even themselves. So when a bird sings a song, the traveller gets irritated. ‘Go away’, he says. ‘What is there to sing about? This is such a miserable place’. The bird is hurt. It was singing because the traveller looked miserable. The bird was singing to cheer up the traveller. It tries a different song. The traveller is now really angry. He throws a rock at the bird.  ‘I know you are mocking at me. You can fly. So you don’t have to walk on these rocky paths. If you had to, you would not be singing these songs.’ The bird flies away, sad and bewildered.

“It is not what the bird does which irritates the traveller. It is his own state. When a traveller is in  such a state, he does not need a song. He does not even like someone who is looking very happy. He wants someone who can help. That birds and animals cannot. They can heal the thoughts with their songs. Not the wounded feet, the torn hands.

 “But the travellers help each other. When one is sitting tired and in pain, another will approach him. ‘Look’, he says. ‘I have found something for your wounds. It will not heal, but it will make you forget the pain. For sometime at least.’ The traveller is grateful, even for an illusion. And for someone who is a similar sufferer.

“When the travellers see a referee, they beseech him to find a way for them out of this valley, to  the valley of peace or to the last pass. The referee nods his head gravely and says, ‘In your own  time. Meanwhile follow the advice given to you.’ Poor travellers go back to the thorny trees to  pluck the fruit, thinking it will help them get out of this place. What it helps is in giving them more  wounds. They do not realise that the referee does not even know when he himself is going to quit this valley. The referees are suffering as much as the other travellers. But they do not admit it. They keep their wounds hidden under the robes. Other travellers help the referees more often, thinking the referees may some day really help them.

 

“A part of this valley is the zone of haze. If a traveller gets into it, he is surrounded by the haze, a  strange whiteness through which you see nothing, except light. The journey becomes even more difficult if you enter this haze. You are more likely to stumble on rocks. You are more likely to get stuck in the thorny bushes. You are more likely to bump into other travellers and birds and animals. You think they are all out to bother you. The zone of haze appears endless. You cannot see the path. So you lose the choice at the split points.

“Then one day the traveller in the zone of haze says, ‘I cannot see anything because of this haze.  Why do I still try to keep seeing, straining my eyes all the time? My eyes are tired. Let me rest these eyes. Nothing will be lost if I close my eyes. I remember I could see the thoughts so clearly, when I closed my eyes in the valley of clouds. Maybe, even now it will help me.’ Saying this, the traveller closes his eyes tightly shut. He feels very relaxed. He travels faster. Soon he is able to quit this valley.

“In the valley of haze, mercifully you cannot see other travellers. But in other parts of this valley, they present a painful sight. It is not only the injured hands and feet. It is the tired bodies, bent backs, broken spirits. Travellers who did not collect labels still manage to walk on their own.  But those who had collected a lot of labels can hardly walk in their present condition with all these labels. They cannot think of parting with these. So they beseech other travellers to help them. Other travellers feel that the label wearers are a privileged lot, so they do help. You can sometimes see a battered traveller carrying another on his shoulders. And the rider will be generally laden heavily with labels.

“I did get into this valley once. Fortunately, I was able to cross over to the valley of peace.”

 He had not asked for a coin today. I had been sitting all along clutching the coin in my palm. It was now damp with sweat. The coin belonged to him. We had decided that everyday he told me the story, I would give him a coin. I offered him the coin. He took it with a naughty smile. He looked like a child, even younger than me with that naughty smile. I suddenly realised that I had seen a child-like face after very long. Boys my age always looked active, alert, clever. Babies looked as if they belonged to another world yet, the way they appeared to be lost in thoughts.  “If I do not take this coin, I will be caught,” he said smiling all the while.

 “Well, son, that is almost all that is to this story. From the valley of peace or from the valley of thorns, the travellers cross over to the last pass,” he said, getting up to go. 

I was very alarmed. It looked that he would not come back. I broke the habit of not asking a question when he got up to go. This was more important than any habit. He was going away without telling me a vital part of the story. I caught the end of his robe. 

“And what is beyond this last pass? You may call it the last pass, but it cannot be really the last pass. You said this journey has no end. You promised to tell me about many other things.” The disappointment in my voice was too plain.

“Yes, this journey has no end. But for the rest of your question, I will take another coin.”