If you ask about me I’ll tell you that –
I’m the hero of this story. Amidst all the real and unreal characters I’m the hero. Me not a writer but to tell you my tale I’m writing this-
I’m sitting on the bank of a lake. I throw pebbles into the lake. You’ve already read it in the stories or have heard that there’s always a hero, sitting on a bank, and throwing pebbles, and ripples are taking place. Such ripples also take shape into his mind. Thoughts after thought and …
Here’s a different story. I throw pebbles and there are no ripples at all. If at all the ripples can rise and be seen or understood, then these ripples… but I throw pebbles after pebbles and yet… The lake’s empty…
I wish that let the lake be filled with pebbles. Let me throw pebbles as much as I can. Then let there not be lake at all. Let it turn into a ground for kabaddi or cricket.
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Hills surround the bank of the lake. Many trees stand spreading their long shadows there. And on the other side is a grove – a terrifying grove of tamarinds. Birds are chirping. Lots of lotuses have opened up in the lake. This is the lake always filled with water, doesn’t dry up any time. Women come to fetch water and the lake too becomes live. Happiness spreads on its lips. Rows of ducks swim around and I watch the play. For me this is a holy lake – say it’s the Mansarovar. And hence Time’s unable to catch me though constantly follows me. He is powerless to draw me backward or push forward. On such a living lake I’m sitting and my eyes are filled with curiosity and mystery. Don’t throw any smallest pebble. If I throw, it’s difficult to fetch it out from eyes. And if we try to remove it from the eyes then the lake may get in. What then?
I don’t throw pebbles. If I do the lotuses will catch them. And so it’s possible that ripples may not take place. Well, no hope I have for it. Actually no ripples at all. The surface is still and lotuses look beautiful. Water creatures, lotuses, and lilies make it beautiful. It looks as if there’s no lake. The still surface seems deceptive and still waters are always deep.
There are lotus seeds into the deep water. There’s something other too. Don’t know exactly what’s it? But I can tell you that there’s deep water and possess ripples and whirls inside and yet it has soothing effect that you cannot show or pinpoint. This is what draws me to the lake. I long for those lotus fruits and seeds. I long for soothing of those shining whirls inside.
Sometimes I jump into the lake and stand amidst lotuses. Shake hands with them. I keep my hands up and open and body sunk into the water. In the lake and at the bottom there are soft fibre roots. I often fetch out handful of lotus seeds and share them with my friends. But it’s also true I’m unaware of many things. I don’t know how many tales I have fetched out with those seeds and shared!
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And again it happens. Everything merges with those tales I have fetched out. There’s the grove and there are the hills, the hills standing in the shape of a man offering a prayer to the Sun God. The water, water creatures and everything merges.
I often came here with my grandfather. Held my fingers and accompanied me over here. But things are different now. People have different feelings because the lake is now a pit only. And so they call it a ‘Pit’. This lake or the ‘Pit’ is found in the tales only. In that grove lived a terrible dacoit Jesal Jadeja. Darkness hung there even during the day. Hideous animals too move there.
On the banks now dwell some witches. Ghosts have possessed tamarind trees. Passers - by are scared. It was the time of the lake that once it looked graceful like the grandpa’s wrinkled face. It was as loving as him.
Except the lake there’s everything there: stalls on the bank, a bus stop nearby, lots of people, vehicles and their noise. Everything there - except the lake. The lake’s now a pit only.
It rains – often cats and dogs and often a drizzle that soaks soil lumps only. Often it comes like a child, born after so many prayers. Late rain. Scarce rain. The lake depends upon rain. Heavy rain fills the lake. And little rain brings little water. Many times the lake overflows too. No surety of anything. But on the rainy day holding the grandpa’s hand I came to the lake. What a pleasure! Ah, what pleasure I had! Even in the crowds I’d become lone and slip into wonderland. Ah! And on the other day again I’d…..
Oh! Somebody has drunk all water. Who’s he? Who’s drunk all water? O, come on my dear ones, come on and find the man. Yesterday the lake had been here and today it’s no more! Where’s the lake? Who sent cattle? Someone’s unbridled cattle drank up all the water. And this lake laughs, makes mockery. And the sun turns red in anger. He’s going to dry up the lake’s remaining moisture too.
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O my dear fellow, which lake is you talking of? The lake that possessed the lotuses or the pit that had been filled yesterday, dried up today?
Let me tell you that no unbridled cattle came here. And it’s also true that nobody stands on the bank as nobody comes over here. Yes it’s true – till the evening the lake was full but by the night it became empty. Who’s done this? Does anyone dare to visit the lake at night?
Well, I think there’s someone. Someone sitting at the bottom of the lake. Someone with his mouth open. Someone with the longing, longing for water. Someone sitting since ages with his desire and his open mouth swallowed lotus fruits and seeds. He’s swallowed the lotuses, water creatures, rows of ducks and rows of flying birds and… and yet the thirst is unquenched.
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I’m sitting on the bank and it’s the evening. The evening colours have spread up in the sky. The tamarind grove is in the tunes of birds. The lotuses catch up the evening colours. The lake surface reflects the row of birds flying in the sky and it makes the sky and the lake one. My friends demand lotus seeds. The lake invites me. I wish to jump and bring out pleasant evening touch that had gone deep into the water. Finally I remove my clothes and jump. I push myself ahead. As I’m heading my friends call me to come out but the lakes calls me to come in. I like to be wrapped up into those soft fibres. The soft touch of those soft fibres goes deep within me. It excites me a lot. I ‘m in a sweet confusion: whether those fibres wrap me or I wrap them. But I forget everything as if I’ve come up high from all the worldly things. Time and place don’t matter me now.
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The whole lake becomes restless. The swimmers take dips after dips. The lotuses are pulled out. Even fibre like roots too are pulled out and thrown away. The lake makes a loud cry but there’s none to hear him. And then ….water begins to recede. Finally water is soaked up. One finds a corpse of a young man trapped into fibres.
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My grandpa says that since then the bottom of the lake has been cracked but my childlike mind says that the lake regretted the young man’s death and has given up taking food and water. Tales say that the young man sitting at the bottom drinks up the whole lake.
The lake’s bottom is cracked it’s true and it’s also true that someone’s sitting on the bank with his thirst unquenched since the ages.
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I the hero of this whole tale sitting on the bank am throwing pebbles. I wish to fill it up such pebbles but then… then the lake will become a ground. And if so, what about my thirst?