A sharp turn on the trail has suddenly opened up a panoramic view of the river; its slithering body extends far into the distance before tapering off behind a forest of trees. Here, the dogwood has been cleared out and a gravel path, smothered in tanned cedar, leads down to the bank. I follow it to a wooden bench that sits expecting the keen wanderer. The mid-April air is clean, crisp, and the sky is still blushing at the sight of the morning sun. A willow’s sturdy arms extend in all directions, some contemplating the water surface. I follow their gaze to the shore and look into the water; its clarity amazes me. Lying calmly on the shallow bed among sombre stones are the yellowed leaves of the willow. They live inside a dream, I think; only the gentlest ripple in the veil makes them real.
Upstream, a heron has materialized from the golden light, and glides gracefully downwards. It doesn’t touch down however. Instead, it hovers over the water surface and peers inside as if held in an engaging conversation. It is in this moment that the river appears to me as an enlightened man, lying down in a depression on the earth’s surface. Gazing upward at the blue sky, he smiles knowingly as the geese fly back home. They must seem to him like the scattered pieces of a puzzle joining together into a whole. A dragonfly is buzzing merrily above the water surface, but the fickle wind has implulsively sent it swirling into the water. These swirls, his thoughts, they change him – moment by moment, day by day. So many ages have passed this way, cultures changed, people gone; his mind, shifting and shaping, forming and moulding.
Further up along the bank the water sparkles like diamonds set loose. The sycamores here have sprouted new leaves and are rapt in innocent chatter. To me, their whispers are indecipherable, but the river is listening with placid ease. The sound of its gentle flow is so soothing, I must close my eyes to take it all in. The song of the birds is beginning to recede. The whispering sycamores drift into the background. I can no longer sense the wind, and even the trickle of the water is fading away. And now there is just silence. Deep silence. I don’t know how long I am held this way. When I awaken again to the world, a shadow peers back at me from the river, nameless, faceless, floating among the sombre stones in eternal time.
Arjumand Ateeq 