To listen to a whistling thrush

 

 

“There is a magic that unfolds in deep forest” he said, as we trek the wet evergreens. It was few weeks after the monsoon shrouded the western coast and drenched the earth. The forest was reinvigorated with life. It sprouted on every available space. There are different shades of verdant green, the inviting dark green, pleasant lime green, refreshing spring green, intriguing apple green, brooding seaweed green, reluctant fern green, shifting olive green, succulent pear green, luxurious moss green, discreet shamrock green, loud parakeet green and fresh mint green. All these green cascade scattered with blue, yellow and red wild flowers. We walked. His boots squishing the wet grass, I traced his steps. With a stick he pushed away the wayward growth as we negotiated the trail. Leeches extend itself from every opportune spots to cling to the passing warm blood. “Don’t worry too much about them. Let the blind suckers drink some blood. It’s a free leech therapy in the wild” he said and laughed. I really didn’t think it was funny but his laugh was infectious. Cicada calls were getting too loud. He stood still to locate the source. The camouflaged insect was not going to give away its hideout. He detected it on the stem of the tree with its piercing call. Its enormous glassy wings like perfected origami merge into bark of the tree. Its large eyes vacantly fixed to the world. It vibrated its belly and the world started to swell in its pulsation till it drill into the skull and hurt. We came to the clearing where a tall tree has fallen. He pointed to the undulating mountain and said “When it flowers it carpets the mountains in blue. It’s a sight to behold”. The blue mountain crease the horizon. The rotting tree was being eaten by fungi from inside, it break the lignin into sugar to feed all the life. He scraped the wood to show that it has become like sponge, easily disintegrating into elements without the binding polymer. Startling white mushrooms sprung its umbrella in the dark recess of the decay. It smelt as if it rained few moments back. The air churl the distinct smell that I conceive as origins of life. A stunning bright yellow streaked through the forest. “It cannot be golden oriole” he guessed with a logic that it isn’t the migratory season yet. “It must be the female minivet” he concluded. The reason for ruckus was lion tailed macaque jostling with giant squirrel for the ripe jackfruit that hung precariously at the top branch. “That is a great sighting. Don’t you think so?” I nodded. I prefer silence, and let the forest seep into me. The forest though had its own ways of revealing its universe. It had its silence, pause, noise, its beauty and ugliness. Everything merged into seamless thought so that the experience had a cyclical value to it. The beginning, the end and all the interceding tableau at display. It demanded a better sense to get into the rhythm of the play. A strict and deep aversion towards anthropocentric illusions. It insisted a keen attribute that is very elemental but ephemeral.            

Weaver ant army cross our path. He stopped to examine. The ants carry severed centipede in a neat row. It’s head, fangs and legs taken in bite size as thousands of ants rush in a great hurry. They dash to and fro but they don’t get clogged. The swarm has its own intelligence, he says. It’s the way nature evolves its consciousness through the veins of little lives. It aggregates in simple intuitions that instruct their motives. I look at the red streak of twirling gaiety. They blur into each other like a post-impressionist painting. It was about this time that we heard a whistle. A plain careless whistle that was apparently well rehearsed that it attracted immediate attention. He froze, and indicated me to be still. We stood quiet. In the pause I heard all the voices in the forest. A great calm orchestrated these actions. The time too must have stilled since in that moment I seemed to have glimpsed something too vast to be momentary. A tacit pact was being dealt that would be defining part of my being henceforth. Then the whistling thrush begin to sing his interrupted song and all the thoughts of all the birds and other creatures and all the loveliness that is in nature came to me with such a surge of deep happiness that it has now its own life. 

(A sentence was taken from the writing of Rachel Carlson, indeed it was the inspiration to write this piece. The moment I read the sentence –the last sentence here, it struck a deep cord with my experience with malabar whistling thrush)