When I woke, I found my body entangled in a web of
uneasiness. It was invisible, but I clutched at the nothingness, hoping to
remove the hollow feel.
The earth exhaled from somewhere north, and the trees
swelled like lungs. The leaves in my chest quivered in ecstasy as the cool air
blew in. I took from the bounty of nature, but it gave no concern to me. I was
nothing more than anything else, and that equity set me free. A voiceless
observer, content in nonexistence.
It was a cold morning on the side of the river, and my
clothes hung wet on the clothesline. The wetsuit and t-shirt I had in the
sleeping bag with me had dried next to my warm skin, and I slipped them on
while still in the cocoon. I scratched the sleep out of my eyes as the cooking
stove warmed my oatmeal mixed with instant coffee; a Gulmarg special of
sustenance and caffeine. It tasted awful.
There was no activity as I pushed off onto the grey river.
Humans seemed to be a memory in this place, and even the birds were wary of
song.
The river surface was still on a cosmic level. With only
five miles to travel over five hours, I decided not to paddle. The river would
take me along at the right pace. As I looked off the sides of the boat, water
bubbles and suspended particles of dirt and twigs floated in unison. Without
the reference points of shore, the river stopped; all objects were travelling
at the relative speed of nothing. Nothing moved at a difference pace than
anything else, so everything stood still on the surface.
The southern river took a characteristic slow bend, and my
kayak toured the lazy outside curve. Along the banks, bright ferns and moss
clung to tree roots and rocks, eager to drink from the water. The black of the
soil and the luminance of the leaves clashed in a battle I was glad to witness.
As I came to the point of the bend furthest from the upcoming rapids, I placed
my paddle into the pool for the first time. I wanted to stay in this place for
a little longer.
A creek joined the Buffalo at this point, and a clearing in
the forest revealed the vein as it snaked back into the body of the Ozarks.
Small rounded rocks and boulders were rhythmically massaging the small stream
as it flowed downward, clear and free.
It was a memory for the river. Water that had once fallen on
the leaf of a quivering cottonwood dripped down into the brook, where it was
beat upon the rocks. From there it grew and lived, until the solitary drop
joined the mighty river at the tip of my kayak. The Buffalo had thousands of
memories like these, and millions more as individual drops oozed out of rock
faces and saturated soil. The river itself didn’t exist. It was an infinite
collection of water from far away, coalesced into a body that collectively
existed, here, as one.
I waved a mosquito away from my stiff rain jacket, as the
mist picked up to a drizzle.
Chhatrapati Shivaji International Airport was sparsely
populated as I approached the gate. Each footstep leapt through time, and
clawed at me on the river. Like deep notes on a piano chord, they marked the
incessant passage of time, and my departure from the maximum city. I was
inching away from everything that I had built and destroyed over the past year,
but more importantly, I was walking away from the foundation of a new life.
I had established something great in India. Men yelling in
the streets woke me up in the morning. Strange tastes grew into my tongue, and
burrowed themselves in like groundhogs. My work was respected, and my opinion
sought after. I learned to understand conversations without knowing any words.
I grew into a negotiator. I grew into a lawbreaker. My heart turned cold, but
burned hotter than ever before.
My last view of India was Juhu beach, glowing bright along
the black ocean. I watched as the clouds slowly took the light away, relegating
the city to the limits of my memory.
The day’s first rapid was quick and narrow, and a
tantalizing flat rock face sat inches above the cold water. I paddled hard into
the ‘v’ formed at the top of the rapid, picking up speed to ram into the rock
face and bounce up onto the surface. The plan worked, and as the front of my
kayak bellied up to the rock, the rapids pushed the back side forward. The
combination of the forces spun the kayak in place, and soon I was teetering on
the gnarled boulder.
Without hesitation I jumped out and dragged my vessel
further onto the outcropping. Once safely away from the water, I looked up to
the shy sun.
The next photon to hit my cornea sent my soul spinning into
tops of the southern pines. In an instant, my mind was hurdling through time as
my body anchored itself on the Buffalo rocks.
One moment I was young again, just a child, floating on a
raft with Dad, Becca, Uncle Jeffery and Aunt Vale. My head was more golden
then, before the darkness set in. Becca and I struggled with paddles twice the
size of our bodies. Yet somehow we were filled with a pure, unapologetic desire
to go. I looked into my little blue
eyes: they were scowled and determined. I wish I could warn them of the rapids
to come, and maybe catch those inevitable tears.
The next moment I was becoming a man. Sinewy arms flailed
underneath the moldy lifejacket we had forgotten to take off the boat, long ago
the previous fall. My golden hair had begun its descent into brown, but was
frayed and frizzed like the small claws of a wool blanket. Pimples bulged out
from my face, oil production in overdrive, slowly planning their escape from my
body. But my eyes continued their scowling, peering down the river in
apprehension and hope. The poor creature in front of me had fought with
valiance through the fraying of his family, and the cleaving of his home. I was
proud of those blue eyes and skinny arms; there was strength in his
vulnerability.
The current of time wrapped around my calf and shoulder, and
spun me in a cold whir into the next frame of life. Arms still skinny, my face
had shielded itself with a beard, and the lifejacket was no longer moldy.
Incessantly behind me, in a separate kayak, was my father. He sent words of
wisdom to my crumpled left ear, and they danced in the ridges. Some remained
there until they became inaudible, while others dove into my head and burrowed
themselves into my heart. I’m proud of
you. The words tattooed themselves onto my right ventricle. There they will
remain, stretching and shrinking until the faded ink is forever lost with the
last beat.
A new moment approached with a wave of distortion. Subtle
wrinkles had begun to carve themselves into the side of my face. I was alone
again, and paddling slower. My eyes were still set upon the river, emotionless
in concentration. Yet somehow they flashed grey in a way I didn’t recognize;
like peering into the eyes of an old sea captain, I was aged by longing for something. The image was frightening,
and I was glad when the flow of time drowned my body again.
I stayed under for longer before the next moment came,
perhaps reminiscent of the long desert-like stretch of the middle-ages of a
man’s life. When I finally bobbed up, I had aged greatly. For the first time, I
was not in the front. My body was stationed at the back of a canoe, my hair
returning to the golden color of yore; streaks of grey peppering the brown into
a brighter hue. In the front of the canoe was a bright red shadow. It was
something, someone. A high-pitched
voice and laughter emitted from the aura, my graying eyes glowing blue in
response. This time I spoke low and softly to the front, my words becoming ink
for new ideas. My eyes were no longer focused solely on the river ahead.
Instead they peered into the canoe, and scanned the horizon for trouble.
Powerless against the flow of time, again I was pulled away.
The next moment was the last. My arms were frail again, and my skin hung
loosely from my bones like a featherless chicken. My head bobbed rhythmically
as I struggled to keep it up. My paddles were labored and slow, always seconds
behind the action of the river. There were hazy apparitions all around me,
spinning around the canoe like an ancient rain dance once common to these
woods. The ghosts were encouraging, and even though my body was broken and old,
a smile shot from my lips like a deadly cannon. It was, finally, happiness.
A boom sounded upon the river, as my happiness sprung into
the spirits and left my body motionless in the canoe. My eyes were no longer
visible, but the blue continued on into the haze, destined to forever float
upon the river. My lucky body was merely a momentary vessel in its infinite
journey.
Upon my return to the present, May of 2015, I found myself lying
upon the warm rock face. A soft cloud blew through the canopy of the Ozarks
behind me, and the perfume of pine rolled over the stagnant wetsuit and kayak.
“Howdy!”
I blinked through the fog left by my journey to find an old
man sitting upright in a silver canoe assaulted by dents.
“Hey there. How’s it going?” I said with an influenced
twang.
“Well,” he began, “it’s a nice day for a good paddle, I
reckon.”
“Yeah,” I nodded slowly and smiled deeply.
As he passed by with a wave, I spoke softly to my own ears,
“It sure is.”
The Buffalo is a giver. The surrounding woods and bluffs
emanate sounds and smells that gently tug at your heart, until they turn your
head and you say, “Oh yeah, that’s right. That’s
who I am.”
Who am I?
I’m Arkansas, I’m New York, I’m India, I’m an oak, I’m a
golden retriever, I’m an architect, I’m a digger, I’m coffee, I’m old wood, I’m
a truck, I’m a car, I’m a watermelon on a deck, I’m summer heat and winter
cold, I’m Carl Sagan, I’m a river.
I am nothing that I could ever write, and something I may
never know. But dear reader, my time in India (and perhaps more importantly the
reflection time afterwards) has forced me to confront myself in ways I never
have before. We are all momentary, but we are immortal through memories and
smiles. We must go fast and far through the world, dusting ourselves into the
memories of others so we may live without end.
Maybe the rose and peanut farmer in Indapur will tell his
children about the day a white guy from America visited his farm. Maybe they
will in turn joke about the idiot who once visited their father’s farm. So I
will again exist upon their lips and laughter, and again romp through the
Maharashtrian sugarcane.
My journey east was not geographic. It has been a
directional journey into an unexplored recess of my psyche, and I’m so glad I
discovered this place.
Now, dear reader, it’s time to go south in the incessant
exploration of life.
Texas, who am I?
