The Reverie

He stared at the mountains from the solitude of the forest. He had found the perfect spot at the edge of the woods, peering over the precipice into the faintly glistening river in the distance that meandered merrily, blissfully oblivious of his presence. From the vantage point, at this distance, the river looked serene. It was anything but. It was ferocious in fact, its roar diluted to a ceaseless whisper where he was.

Was it all real? The snow-cap, the forest beneath, the river further down. It looked like a postcard. He’d seen it too often on screens and on papers and never in real life. The reality had to sink in. It wasn’t a prop, it wasn’t fiction. They existed. The mountain he beheld in the distance was as real as the one he was perched on. It was not the imagination of a mortal.

The silence was eerie. The flow of the river was no longer a noise, it was a constant background over which all was still. Every step he walked would take him a step further from civilisation, a step closer to the peak. He would see for himself if the peak looked like the one across the river. He hoped it did. He vaguely feared that it would all evaporate. Maybe it would. Maybe he would wake up.

The cold that so effectively teamed up with fatigue to bite into his calves was all too real. It had been a hard climb so far but the hardest part had been done. He decided he could rest a few minutes longer. He could enjoy the beauty.

But would it be beautiful if he were here everyday? Was it absolute beauty or only a relative beauty perceived by the nature starved city dwellers on their overdose of concrete and tar and humanity? Relative or absolute, beauty still felt the same, so why did he bother wondering? What is beauty? He wondered why he wondered what it was rather than enjoying whatever it was.

Ugly, that’s what it was. A pile of land folded upward irregularly with rocks and boulders precariously holding on, sometimes letting go and tumbling down. It was not in good repair, no real paths across the terrain, the greenery was erratic and wild, not groomed in ages. The cold alone could make one despair. No sign of other living beings here, no comforts.

That was the hypocrisy. At home, comfort is a good word. It’s a well made bed and a soft blanket. Up here, on walks and vacations in places of natural beauty all the overnight outdoor enthusiasts spit out the word in derision - comfort! Ruined us. Look at the lifestyle problems we all face. Get Pune out of our lungs. Breathe-in the air of heaven. We live for nature. Reconnect with our roots. Pah!

They wouldn’t last a day in nature. They wouldn’t last a day without comfort. We wouldn’t. Nature is living and dying by the sword. We’re evolved to survive somehow to age 40, procreate and get on with it. Instead we dangle limply from canes and walking sticks, wired to machines to die on our beds long after we’ve become walking corpses, useful for no function.

Nature would give us disease and cold and fatigue and wounds. Not to mention predators. What we live for is comfort. What we live because of, is comfort. More civilisation and less nature. Let’s not kid ourselves.

He looked up from his reverie and reminded himself of where he was. The sun was still high up in the sky, the river still glistened and the mountain stood motionless and grand as ever. He was transfixed and mesmerised again by the beauty of it. It was still there. It was probably real. It was certainly beautiful.

He reached the very top. And there he felt elated and exhilarated. It was worth it despite it all. It was good to be in nature. Good to get Pune out of his lungs. Nature wasn’t a killer, nature was beauty. We live for beauty, for never do we live in it. We find it where we seek it.