Breathing New Zealand

Pristine. Breathtaking. Untouched – words that are usually found in novels that prefer to delve more into description of the setting than to carry forward the plot. And I hate those novels. Well, at least I don’t love them. I crave a story – something to predict; something to look forward to. The description – well, that’s just there, isn’t it? It’s still, static – boring.

In the last 48 hours that I’ve spent in New Zealand though, I’ve realized that there is something to be said for that stillness – some kind of perplexing beauty in the lack of action. Ever since I reached New Zealand, which just happened to be on Labour Day (which was co-incidentally also the day after the Rugby World-cup final, so everybody was busy sleeping over their hangovers), the country has been dead. No people in sight. I’ve seen more sheep and cows than humans. Every 5 minutes I would turn to my parents and ask – so what do we do next – gesturing helplessly at the deserted water-sports area around us. And every 5 minutes, I would receive a shrug in return. So eventually I stopped asking.

And started seeing. And hearing. And feeling. And most importantly, I started breathing. I saw before me some of the most spectacular lakes and clear blue water, with snow-capped mountain peaks rising from behind, so far away that I couldn’t even capture them on my camera lens. Behind me, green grass spread out for acres, often covered by the straight-backed pine-trees neatly arranged in perfect lines that could have put a march-past team to shame. The scene was right out of those ‘scenery’ pictures I used to draw as a kid, never realizing there really were places that had such a perfect blend of blue, white, and green.

I heard the rustling of the leaves in the wind. I heard the sounds of insects which I had forgotten existed thanks to my busy city life. I heard my own feat crumbling the gravel on the ground below. I heard water gurgling from the boiling geysers that form part of New Zealand’s main natural attractions. I heard the sound of my own breath – quite a strange experience when you actually think about it. You know what I did not hear? People chattering, music blaring, horns honking, children shouting, myself yelling – everything was quiet. And calm. And peaceful.

I felt the wind like I haven’t felt it in ages since Bangalore. I felt the cold like I used to feel it in Canada. I felt the relaxation I had felt every time I went home to Kuwait. I felt the beauty of the landscape that I felt as a child in my house in Dehradun. I felt alive the way I do in Bombay – but so much more. Not alive to do things, but to just be. And I used to think that being alive means making the most of every single minute, of not wasting time but doing all the time. Yet in the last couple of days, I haven’t done anything. Unless you count lying down on the grass and actually falling asleep without a care in the world. Or walking along the most beautiful lake I have ever seen. Or realizing that I could feel alive while actually being static.

And so I took a deep breath. And then another. And a few more. I let the calm and the silence wash over me.  I let myself be immersed in beauty that for the most part has been left unaltered by man. I fell in love with something that was pristine. Breathtaking. Untouched.

Something that was static. Yet alive.

Utterance

“I don’t like it.”

Four simple words. Nothing complicated about them whatsoever, with the possible exception of the apostrophe on the second word. They were just there, swirling around in my head, as though waiting for me to swoop in with a net and throw them out of my mouth.

It seems we do a lot of that – waiting. As the words waited impatiently for me to pick them up, I waited too: for the right moment, for my anger to subside, or perhaps, for it grow to a point beyond control, so I would have an excuse to say those words. Waiting was the means to my end – what that end would be, I wasn’t sure. Whether, like on the stroke of midnight of August 15, 1947, my words would find utterance; or whether they would fade away to silence and grudgingly trudge towards the enormous pile of forcefully discarded thoughts.

I hoped for the former, but hope, when mingled with waiting, can be a dangerous combination. The determination is there, the resolution set, the anger surging. Yet the trigger remains just out of reach, as I sit around, waiting, hoping for the opportune moment to come along.

The scene has already played out a gazillion times in my head. For all the silence that envelopes me from the outside, my inner mind is seeing the satisfaction of an eloquent and persuasive monologue, one that Shakespeare would be proud of. I know exactly what to say, and effortlessly express my anger, my hurt, my disappointment, while a wave of understanding washes over the other person. All our misunderstandings are forgotten as my words drive the point home, and the ending, as Disney so eloquently puts it – is a happily ever after. All thanks to me and my words.

But while we applaud Shakespeare for giving us words that manage to grasp the complex emotions of misunderstanding, we forget something quite obvious – he wasn’t the actor. He wasn’t the performer. He wasn’t the one standing on stage, with hundreds of eyes upon him, waiting expectantly for him to say those words. No, there were others to do that task. His job was writing, and that’s what he did. He was lucky there were people around him willing to say those words aloud for him in his plays; just like the one taking place in my head, the one that had ace performers and cheering audiences.

Reality, of course, is that other stage, the one set outside my head, where I play the role of a mute, unable to express the feelings that are now becoming too painful to restrain. And so I close my eyes, willing myself to calm down, when the truth is that I want nothing more than to let go and let it all out.

As always, silence wins the round. Reluctantly, I assure myself that the next time, my words will find their utterance.