The tyre turned and wobbled, but never slackened in speed. The path was muddy and stones—from pebbles, to larger, sharp pointed ones—punctuated it. It seemed to lead to nowhere for it was long, generally straight and went up and down a number of times. Not a sound of an engine was heard for there were no vehicles in miles. The gentle tapping of the stick on tyre and the heavy breathing of the boy was all that broke the calm.
He was eight. His skin was tanned as he lived most of his life under the sun. He wore khaki shorts that barely touched his knees and a Banian that was torn around the armpits. It was midday now and the sun was right above his head. It was a fiery, burning mid-summer Indian sun, the one that he knew so well. It was unrelenting and he was unmindful—they made a good pair. He tapped and ran and the tyre bobbed along—they made a much better pair.
Keeping the tyre in control was no mean feat. It needed a lot of practice and some neat skill. It came to him quite naturally; sometimes he would forget it’s presence for it was almost an extension of his body while sometimes he could even do it with his eyes closed. A hot, dry breeze blew with him and he welcomed it. It was nature’s own way of egging him along.
He spotted a water tap in the distance. His throat was parched and this was like sunrise to the rooster. His legs found new strength and he hurried on. He placed, carefully and tenderly, his stick and tyre by the side of the road and tweaked open the tap. The water gushed out as though waiting to be called upon. It tasted different—almost like it was tinged with sugar—a subtle sweetness that he loved. He drank as much as he could and then sprawled down under the tap. The coolness of the surging water on his face as he lay under the Sun gave him immense pleasure.
Presently, he got up and commenced, once again, his journey. He couldn’t afford to rest for too long for time was a constraint. The mouth-watering prospect of the waterfall, his destination, made him all the more eager to restart. He came across a signpost, but it was in English and he didn’t even bother to stop. Then came a fork and he was in a fix. He hadn’t anticipated this and he was unsure of which path to take. He sat down in the middle, put the tyre around his neck and wondered what to do. Luckily for him, a bullock-cart lumbered along his path and he asked the man,
“How do I get to the waterfall?”
The old man on the cart smiled, and pointed towards the left. The boy jumped at once and, with just one glance back at the man, continued his journey, his faithful tyre rolling by him. The old man watched him run until he appeared as a tiny dot in the distance, before he shook his head, turned right and moved on.
“Where are you going this fast?”
“To the waterfall! How far is it? ” he questioned.
“Another half an hour. But, at your speed, you might make it in just 20 minutes!”
“Thanks” he screamed and broke into a run. He looked back and the man was waving, and he waved too. In no time, he caught a glimpse of a 30-foot high archway, sculpted with the faces of various divine heroes, and his heart pounded. His mother had told him about the archway, and he knew he was minutes away. The tire was now wobbling dangerously as though it would puncture any moment, his limbs were tired from the incessant running, his arm that held the stick ached, his banian was wet with sweat, but his mind was flush with excitement—nothing could dampen his spirit and he ran on.
As he drew closer and closer, his ears strained for the slightest hint for the sound of angry, belligerent water, thudding against rocks. He heard not a sound, but saw a temple of the Lord Ganapathi. He didn’t want to stop, so he moved on—but there was no sign of any waterfall; there wasn’t even a stream that would lead to one. And then it dawned on him—this was the month of May, the hottest and the driest of all—there would be no water now, not even where he lived even though it rained for most parts of the year. He fought back tears of disappointment, of beaten hopes; he felt a lump in his throat;his tummy felt hollow.
Desolation gave vent to fury and as he prostrated before the Lord, he literally screamed out his prayers. Not to be outdone, the temple priest, so far a silent spectator to the boy’s actions, burst into action and vigorously shook the Mani, and chanted shlokas at a decibel louder and an octave higher. The boy quickly got up and began walking away, when, the priest called out to him,
“Aye, don’t you want your prasada?”
The thought of the sweet prasada dragged his tired limbs towards the priest. The priest, perpetually reciting some mantras, gave him his share and asked him why he seemed so glum. The boy told his sorry tale and the priest, gripping his hand, said,
“I can arrange something for you”
And the two of them walked—the tall ageing priest chewing his paan and singing his prayers, and the stony-faced, uncertain boy—hand in hand. They found a bucket, at the back of the temple, and the priest pointed to a tap. The boy dutifully filled it and walked, one hand clasping his beloved stick while the other, the bucket of water (the tyre was safely placed around his neck). They made their way back to the temple, along a passageway that seemed to lead to the interiors, when, suddenly, the priest took a detour. They went through a narrow lane that the boy barely managed to squeeze through (with the bucket) and towards a large door that was locked. The priest removed a tiny, rusted key that was neatly tucked under his dhoti, and fumbled with the lock. He pushed hard at the door and it creaked open. The priest beckoned him.
The boy peeped inside the door and let out a shrill exclamation of joy. It was a glorious sight to behold and for a moment he just stood there, admiring its beauty and spaciousness. It was a humungous tank brimming with water. He cast an enquiring look at the priest as if to ask, ‘Can I?’, to which the priest nodded in assent and he dropped his bucket to the ground, threw his clothes to one side and laughing with delight, ran down the stairs, two at a time, and jumped in. The crystal clear water glistened in the rays of the setting sun and the sound of the boy splashing around echoed throughout. He swam the length and breadth of the tank, played gaily with his tyre and yet he felt something was amiss-- there was still a void, a feeling of emptiness that no amount of swimming in the tank could fill. It was then that he heard the priest call out,
“Aho, Don’t you want your waterfall?”
“Waterfall?”
“Of course! Come over to the edge and close you eyes”
He closed his eyes, wondering what more the old man could produce for him. And then he felt it—the most extraordinary of sensations—chilly, roaring water beating against his head and torso. And as he turned his head, he could barely see through the rampaging water, some twenty feet above, hazy outlines of the bucket he had so carefully carried and the temple priest with one arm around Vinayaka, the temple elephant, who seemed to be having as much fun as he was, playing with the water!
He was eight. His skin was tanned as he lived most of his life under the sun. He wore khaki shorts that barely touched his knees and a Banian that was torn around the armpits. It was midday now and the sun was right above his head. It was a fiery, burning mid-summer Indian sun, the one that he knew so well. It was unrelenting and he was unmindful—they made a good pair. He tapped and ran and the tyre bobbed along—they made a much better pair.
Keeping the tyre in control was no mean feat. It needed a lot of practice and some neat skill. It came to him quite naturally; sometimes he would forget it’s presence for it was almost an extension of his body while sometimes he could even do it with his eyes closed. A hot, dry breeze blew with him and he welcomed it. It was nature’s own way of egging him along.
He spotted a water tap in the distance. His throat was parched and this was like sunrise to the rooster. His legs found new strength and he hurried on. He placed, carefully and tenderly, his stick and tyre by the side of the road and tweaked open the tap. The water gushed out as though waiting to be called upon. It tasted different—almost like it was tinged with sugar—a subtle sweetness that he loved. He drank as much as he could and then sprawled down under the tap. The coolness of the surging water on his face as he lay under the Sun gave him immense pleasure.
Presently, he got up and commenced, once again, his journey. He couldn’t afford to rest for too long for time was a constraint. The mouth-watering prospect of the waterfall, his destination, made him all the more eager to restart. He came across a signpost, but it was in English and he didn’t even bother to stop. Then came a fork and he was in a fix. He hadn’t anticipated this and he was unsure of which path to take. He sat down in the middle, put the tyre around his neck and wondered what to do. Luckily for him, a bullock-cart lumbered along his path and he asked the man,
“How do I get to the waterfall?”
The old man on the cart smiled, and pointed towards the left. The boy jumped at once and, with just one glance back at the man, continued his journey, his faithful tyre rolling by him. The old man watched him run until he appeared as a tiny dot in the distance, before he shook his head, turned right and moved on.
**********
The sun was no longer above his head and the trees shook more vigorously with the wind. He was dripping with sweat and the tyre had acquired a colour as brown as the bark of the trees. A smartly dressed man who walked briskly on the other side of the road stopped, and asked,“Where are you going this fast?”
“To the waterfall! How far is it? ” he questioned.
“Another half an hour. But, at your speed, you might make it in just 20 minutes!”
“Thanks” he screamed and broke into a run. He looked back and the man was waving, and he waved too. In no time, he caught a glimpse of a 30-foot high archway, sculpted with the faces of various divine heroes, and his heart pounded. His mother had told him about the archway, and he knew he was minutes away. The tire was now wobbling dangerously as though it would puncture any moment, his limbs were tired from the incessant running, his arm that held the stick ached, his banian was wet with sweat, but his mind was flush with excitement—nothing could dampen his spirit and he ran on.
As he drew closer and closer, his ears strained for the slightest hint for the sound of angry, belligerent water, thudding against rocks. He heard not a sound, but saw a temple of the Lord Ganapathi. He didn’t want to stop, so he moved on—but there was no sign of any waterfall; there wasn’t even a stream that would lead to one. And then it dawned on him—this was the month of May, the hottest and the driest of all—there would be no water now, not even where he lived even though it rained for most parts of the year. He fought back tears of disappointment, of beaten hopes; he felt a lump in his throat;his tummy felt hollow.
Desolation gave vent to fury and as he prostrated before the Lord, he literally screamed out his prayers. Not to be outdone, the temple priest, so far a silent spectator to the boy’s actions, burst into action and vigorously shook the Mani, and chanted shlokas at a decibel louder and an octave higher. The boy quickly got up and began walking away, when, the priest called out to him,
“Aye, don’t you want your prasada?”
The thought of the sweet prasada dragged his tired limbs towards the priest. The priest, perpetually reciting some mantras, gave him his share and asked him why he seemed so glum. The boy told his sorry tale and the priest, gripping his hand, said,
“I can arrange something for you”
And the two of them walked—the tall ageing priest chewing his paan and singing his prayers, and the stony-faced, uncertain boy—hand in hand. They found a bucket, at the back of the temple, and the priest pointed to a tap. The boy dutifully filled it and walked, one hand clasping his beloved stick while the other, the bucket of water (the tyre was safely placed around his neck). They made their way back to the temple, along a passageway that seemed to lead to the interiors, when, suddenly, the priest took a detour. They went through a narrow lane that the boy barely managed to squeeze through (with the bucket) and towards a large door that was locked. The priest removed a tiny, rusted key that was neatly tucked under his dhoti, and fumbled with the lock. He pushed hard at the door and it creaked open. The priest beckoned him.
The boy peeped inside the door and let out a shrill exclamation of joy. It was a glorious sight to behold and for a moment he just stood there, admiring its beauty and spaciousness. It was a humungous tank brimming with water. He cast an enquiring look at the priest as if to ask, ‘Can I?’, to which the priest nodded in assent and he dropped his bucket to the ground, threw his clothes to one side and laughing with delight, ran down the stairs, two at a time, and jumped in. The crystal clear water glistened in the rays of the setting sun and the sound of the boy splashing around echoed throughout. He swam the length and breadth of the tank, played gaily with his tyre and yet he felt something was amiss-- there was still a void, a feeling of emptiness that no amount of swimming in the tank could fill. It was then that he heard the priest call out,
“Aho, Don’t you want your waterfall?”
“Waterfall?”
“Of course! Come over to the edge and close you eyes”
He closed his eyes, wondering what more the old man could produce for him. And then he felt it—the most extraordinary of sensations—chilly, roaring water beating against his head and torso. And as he turned his head, he could barely see through the rampaging water, some twenty feet above, hazy outlines of the bucket he had so carefully carried and the temple priest with one arm around Vinayaka, the temple elephant, who seemed to be having as much fun as he was, playing with the water!
