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.