The Death Mobile
Created | Updated Dec 7, 2006
When everything was in its own position, I was trying to enter inside. The things before me had their front pages for my eyes. But was I in trouble to search what was behind? When I thought inside, I was in search of origin, but when I thought behind, I was in infinity. It was an image of my mom. I could not tell exactly when I lost her. She was always before me with her glowing eyes. Willingly or unwillingly, I asked her many things in spite of her dumb, old and cold look. Sometimes in my success I found that I asked her about that success. But I had worked hard to achieve the success. I was confused as to whether I was respecting her or examining her. Some successes are fortunes, but all failures are misfortune when work does not meet ends.
I was desperate to escape from the static existence of things, even of my mom's photocopy on the table. She had been looking at me in that way for fifteen years. Sometimes I tried to enter the core of her look. I always found my childhood days with her to consist of love and affection, the very cause of my present loneliness. One loss can't be repaired with another gain. Now my bedroom became the place of my trouble. I decided to take a visit to any remote village. I prepared to go.
I was undecided whether to switch off my mobile or to wander with the world. I felt in me a desire to know something new that acted on me like madness. I felt the deep cry of my soul. Now it was in search of something original, the thing I had yet to gain. But the thought of the world! What could I do for my soul when my every day was stuck with little profit and I wished to get a better day with somebody? But I was desperate to live in life for life's sake. It was a life the world wished me to live. No sooner had I prepared to do it than I felt my present existence was far away from my existence in society. I didn't know exactly whether it occurs to everybody or not. It was harder to perceive others than my own. I was afraid of the thought that if I existed in my world, everything had the same right to exist in its own world, but I did not deny them this. So why did I kill the mobile? Yes, sometimes one existence is rival to other, as sometimes it becomes a friend and all the existence is the existence of the universe. I trusted it.
It was a holiday of my institution. I always prefer bicycle to motorbike. The latter is very attractive to the rustic life. I don't like to be attractive, lest it might be the cause of an inquisitive crowd. I knew loneliness is the heart of unknown. Somebody enjoys the muddy beauty of the village; somebody feels. I was the very somebody who did not know why one should go to the village. But my soul longed for freedom which was imprisoned by the world of my everyday. It was the
time of recognition. I had to recognise myself. I did not conceal the desire of my soul. After riding for forty-five minutes, I entered a village.
When I left the main road, the dust and sand did not favour the wheels of the bicycle because they deeped into them, as it was their habit. I got down from the bike and began to walk, pushing it by its handlebars. It was afternoon then. Here and there, little boys and girls were playing beside the road. Everywhere, I found that they stopped their games, looking at me. Some smiled and some stared at me in almost puzzling way. I felt I was a stranger. I did not say anything, but went on. Some young girls and women peered out from the backyards, which were surrounded by old and new thatched cottages. I knew that the direction I was going was not for me. By their inquisitive look, I was special stranger there. I passed the little village and found the bank of the river that assured me I was far away from my city. I was searching a lonely place and thought that in the far end of the dyke I could find it. I went on. Now I was out of the madding crowd. All the personality and responsibility were out of order. I saw my mobile, switched off, keeping me detached from my everyday world. Now I was free to see the things in my own direction. I kept my freedom alive and prepared to forget the death mobile. I felt it was indispensable in that blessed moment.
Now I found the place to stop. I kept the bicycle standing on the bank and sat between the river and the dyke. It was a grassland, and I decided to lay there. I did it and looked round to begin my search. It seemed that the standing bicycle was an obstacle in my eyes. I rose and kept it lying down on the ground. As I was going to take my place, I suddenly thought my dress might be muddy. I had to return through the familiar people that might consider me abnormal. Yes, I was abnormal. Why did I go there? Who goes there? Except me, you could find two fishermen, a cowboy and a boatman floating on the other side of the river. They were with some purposes. I wanted to know my purpose for coming there. I found that I was going to enter the world of reason, the rival to the beauty, the beauty of the world. Some live for life; some live for search of life.
Now I looked back and found that the sun was still alive with his immortal colour. There were patches of cloud glowing with the last sun of the day. A flight of birds was leaving the land. Perhaps they finished their day's work. The boatman was still searching for something, as he was the most anxious man in the world. I felt him glance at the west sky and absorb himself again in searching. The birds disappeared and the boatman was searching and I was there. The river was singing its own song, as it had been singing since its birth. Birth, the very name of creation, begets action to take it to the end. Now I found that everything had its own purpose to perform. Everybody has to perform his given duty. Oh! Again I was in reason. Beauty and reason can not work together.
Lying there, I could hear the spontaneous song of the cowboy. He did not sing well, but he was pouring his heart into the lonely valley. Every now and then he stopped singing to break the disorder of his flock. I found that he was singing a melancholy strain in the language of soil. The emotional part of the song was taking him away from the valley. He was trying hard to prove Shelley's line, 'Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest thought'. I prove that loneliness is the most important thing to a singer and song is the liberal wealth of the world. Nothing can be more glorious than a
song of heart. Singers can please audiences when they are on the stage, but they can please Mother Earth when they are in such a lonely valley.
Suddenly, one fisherman drew my attention. He was preparing to leave his post. He was folding his fishing net. The other looked at him and perhaps said something. I did not hear their conversation clearly, as I was away from them. Now both of them prepared to leave their posts. When they were just overtaking me, I asked after the success of their fishing. One stared at me and other smiled and said, 'not here, today, perhaps downward'. I did not stop them to hear more, because they have no time to waste. It was the edge of the day. They had to take another place. They were leaving me so fast that they were in competition with the movement of the earth. What is the value of time, that one can not feel without watching them walking downward?
I spent half an hour lying on the grass. Now I decided that I had to watch the glorious beauty of the world from the same angle. I stood up and wanted to switch on the mobile to see whether I was needed for somebody. But I concluded with the thought that I was no more a social animal at present. The mobile might bring the burden and cares of my familiar world. It was really harmful to my pleasant world of loneliness, the source of my divine world. I kept it unchanged. I began to walk towards the cowboy. He was still singing this song of his heart. I thought my appearance might stop him singing. But I was anxious to know the source of his songs, the great part of the golden evening. I was in a trap. I could not decide whether to prefer the beauty of the evening to the beauty of the heart, the very beauty of a cowboy's heart. What I see is my own: what is unseen is divine.
As I was destroying the distance between us, he began to have power over his spontaneous voice and at last there was no song in his throat. He stared at me, saying nothing. I smiled at him.
'How many cattle do you have?' I asked him.
'I have none; they are my master's. I have looked after them for five years,' he replied in almost a voice of fear.
I found he had become a teenager just one year ago. Black skin, white teeth, half-pants and a muddy body with several scratches of thorny bush gave me enough information of the children of the third world. He was the representative of the avoided corner of the world. But I could not help thinking him the beauty of the rustic world. I was confused as to why his misery was the source of my beauty. When I prayed for his salvation, I was Jesus; when I portrayed his salvation, I was a writer. Troubles and sufferings of the world are wealth of the writer though it is the shame of the rulers. For that very reason, writers and rulers live in two different worlds.
All the cattle were before me, but I wanted to know their number, species and characteristics to continue our conversation. I found that he was trying to escape me and my questions. But I did not leave him. I compelled him to reveal the condition of his mother. To him, mother is a thing to beget and forget for the next. He had three brothers and a sister. He was the eldest. Last month she came with the younger two. They waited a long time in his master's house. It was almost dark when he saw them. I shared his happiness of seeing his mother last time. But I found that he became more emotional than before.
'I found she was weaker and darker than before. The rest of her kids seized my lap as well as her health,' he told me in an inaudible voice. 'Once I thought they were devils, but I was told it was the rule of nature.'
I felt the pain and passion of his heart, as they were too heavy to his age. He had a great experience of life and it was his own, his precious practical experience. Life had been biting him since his birth. Such a boy does not need compassion or consolation. Nature works with him as he wishes. He had no hope to nourish for tomorrow. Rain or fine, his every day begins with the cattle and ends with them. Mother Nature adjusts with him, never he. He enjoyed the greatest freedom of the universe.
Instead of asking his name, I asked about his education.
'We had no midday meal in our school, but now my brothers have a schooling life. One meal is enough to live half of life at school and the other half at home,' he replied.
'Don't you feel any problem?' asked I.
'I can count all the cattle,' he continued. 'Today Monday, tomorrow Tuesday, and even I can remember all the dates of month.'
I found that he is more talented than I thought.
Suddenly he looked at the west horizon and told me, 'I have to go.' I had nothing to say except nodding. I did it with a smile.
With a precious return of the smile, he turned around and within a few seconds he arranged the cattle in a queue like Microsoft meticulousness. They gradually disappeared in such a way that one could easily observe the passing of a day, how the darkness reigned over the world.
The boat was still floating on the other side of the river. I could see five or six cottages in the mist of the smoke which stretched on the stomach of the woods. It seemed that the horizon of the east ended on the top of a fence. The last flight of the birds was going towards the very fence of darkness. I was sure that the boatman was searching for something special. He was restless. Every now and then he stood up and watched the other side of the valley as if there should be something happening. Waiting is the very name of the restless mind and the passing of time is rival to expectation. We wait for them who promise to come.
Suddenly, I could see a sign of purple colour coming out from the little village. I thought it was surely a lady. For a moment I was motionless and still. I thought it was the last part of nature in that evening. I did not concentrate on her appearance alone; rather, the appearance of the eastern horizon. It seemed that her presence in that evening brought a new dimension in the world of beauty. As she appeared more and more clearly, I inclined more and more to her age. Perhaps the
age is the great factor when we are in society. But I was out of that. There I was alone. So I found her only a rustic lady bearing me into a golden evening. Here the purple colour of her dress injected me the venom of love. Love for women is very special: it could not be sold or built, it could only be created. The farther we see, the farther we think, but the nearer we see, the nearer we think.
The dim woods behind the lady were going to enter the foggy darkness which reminded me of the smoky image of TS Eliot's Preludes. No, I was out of the city. Moreover, we know the known by reading, but we know the unknown by thinking. What I was thinking of was my own creation. What I saw before me was in its own place and in its own time. I found that I was again going to enter argument and the world of reason. I shook my head and looked at her. She was still coming in her own way; the way seemed to be programmed a thousand years ago when the world lived with this same sand bank, with only distance of time. She was just following the footsteps of the past in a new time, the time of my golden evening.
As she was coming nearer to the boat, the boatman was becoming more and more quiet. Now I found that some men and women were also waiting in the dim, dark shed of the evening. They were peeping out of the little village that consisted of five or six huts. They gave me the clear indication of a sad farewell. The lady who came out among them was surely leaving some signs of her early childhood which she spent there. As she became brighter, they were becoming darker. Send-off is the very name of sweet loosening of heart's bondage. Here one is consoled and the other is comforted. Perhaps they swallowed the social custom of marriage. The groom was leaving her village as though it was not the first time, but very near to first.
I did not recognise her face to compare with, but I perceived the colour of her face. A dark lady can't be brightening in a purple dress. But here she did it. Her motion of walking bore the motion of time as the eternal sign of the universe. Though the darkness was coming down on the earth, in my eyes the light was coming with her. Now I did not see anything except her motion, the very motion of the rustic world. When I was thinking about her, I was in society; when I was looking at her, I was out of society. I found that my existence was in the hand of her existence. I didn't know whether her existence related to me or not, but I was sure my existence was fully related to her.
Now she became closer to the boat and turned behind to look at somebody that she was going to leave. Then she slowly and silently turned her face to the river and bowed as though her attention was to the world beneath her. She was standing between two other familiar worlds. I guessed the boatman told her something and she began to step on the boat. She took her seat with a little tremor of water. The boatman was ready with his paddle and he pushed the boat downstream. When the boat left the place, I found that my eyes were also moving in the same direction as the boat moving. Now I could only see the two lives floating on the river. As they were going far, my eyes did not follow the sign of purple colour. Still I saw the boatman, as he wore white clothing. The lady was still in my imagination, the very name of colourful thought. I invented the existence of the lady with the existence of the man. My existence was no more for her, as it was turned into imagination.
The man with the boat disappeared in the smooth darkness. My eyes no more tolerated the spreading of darkness. The last flight of birds was crossing over the river. I was sure that they would inform some nocturnal birds to prepare for their journey. I found myself alone in the valley. No sun, no moon, no star was looking at me. It was the supreme time to divide the day and night. Now my loneliness bore a little tremor in my heart. Nobody knew me except the valley. Necessity often had no rule. I entered the hungry zone of the world. Here every day ended with the only demand of the day. If the virus of money entered in some heart, I would be attacked to leave everything which could make money. The beauty of the valley was no more before me. I was in fear, the very fear of life. I decided to switch on my mobile. I did it. A message twittered. I made the keypad active to read, 'I'm to call u. switch off. Guest, come on baby.' That was one of the purposes of the mobile. I began to leave the river. I turned behind three times and found nothing but the increasing darkness and the command of my mobile, 'come on baby', the companion of the rest of time.
