The Archimedics

1

"Where are you people heading for?" yelled the Physiologist.

"Nowhere, just trying to see how far back we can trace it.’’

"Ok. If you find some deeper place to bath, call us there."

"Yah."

The tiny stream with its aqueous scintillations and deluding shade-plays lay ahead of us, me and the Camerawallah; and we were too much intoxicated by the feet-dragging greetings from the rivulet to refrain from going ahead leaving others behind. Just a few steps ahead we startled a flock of women bathing in the safe guard of one of the turns and till then they, unaware of our presence, were engrossed in chatting about bits and pieces of the valley, with the solemnity of the woods around and the sound of the flowing water enjoying their arrhythmogenic beauty. But as we approached and faced them, they became conscious of their sweet secrets being revealed to non-foresters and embarrassed. I heard a couple of minutes ago the Filmmaker talking to get answers we could not hear. Now he is back to the group and me and the Camerawallah got in touch with this bathing flock of goddesses.

I just followed Camerawallah for the next half an hour or so. There was no sign of the source of the rivulet amidst the forest. As the forest grew denser I was not being able to decide whether or not to continue with our hunt. The intricate niceties were too much for my city-seasoned senses and I kept on following the vivid photographer ahead of me.

Just a few hours ago when we reached the Forest Rest House here at Labongi we were welcomed by the overwhelming presence of nature around us, but then also I never thought of experiencing this carnival of silence. The Rest House balcony on the verge of a green cliff gave us a view of the yellowish green agrarian festivities in the valley and let us know the presence of the traces of human life in this niche of nature other than the mohul-enchanted chowkidar.

The spectrum of silence reminded me of my urban traces. The bustling avenue at Johuree Bazaar in Jaipur and the hawking fulwaalis all around me in the Dadar station in Bombay were equally mind boggling. Johuree bazaar was seat of a festival of colors, Dadar station the festivities of humanity, and here I was taking part in the festival of primeval silence.

"Hey, look at me", I was awakened by the voice of the Camerawallah. Now I noticed him being visible just up to his waist. The stream here had a deeper stretch and Camerawallah had already hung his camera and T-shirt on a branch of a half burnt tree and I knew that our river trek had come to an end.