again, heavy weather causes changes in plans — one that keeps me around Loki longer than I expect. despite the slight stress that change makes, I am happy that this happens. no planes taking off yesterday or today, so Loki is stranded with me for at least an extra day. across at the pizza place, a man is vomiting loudly in the bathroom in the early evening while I call the airlines about the flight situation. swimming for a short time. the wind. like yesterday, is intense. this jewel arrives from Varsha by email from half-way around the globe, Bangkok:
A long drive into the hills beyond Kanchanaburi and we unexpectedly arrive as evening falls to a destination on the river Kwai, from where we complete the rest of our journey by long-tail boat deep into the jungle. We are to stay in a raft-house on the river surrounded by sounds of lush nature unbroken by electricity and all the noise created by it. As the sun drops behind the hills, darkness descends quickly and the few boats go silent, unable to ply dark waters in safety. By now the temperature has dropped considerably with an unusual cold spell that we are experiencing.
Lit lanterns provide small pools of intimacy but little warmth as we sit by the fast-flowing river hungrily drinking wine, talking in soft tones and marveling at the surrounding drama. Even as I am soothed, bathed in wonder of this place my mind dwells on the troubled history of these very surroundings. The river — where once prisoners of war had immersed themselves to let fish eat maggots and clean their wounds. We are located in a bend on the Kwai, which meanders between hills, wrapping around and simultaneously molding a landscape as it rushes to the plains. In darkness, the river mysteriously disappears into a black nothingness only to remind us of a constant and lively presence as it gently laps against our moorings and occasionally, jauntily rocks the bamboo beneath our feet. Orchestrating its own choreography — a play of movements, of swaying lanterns, rafts, people and hanging plants in the otherwise seemingly still surroundings.
A night sky in the cold. A brilliantly lit vista of stars against which, the impression of dark hills with all that they contain are visually flattened until rocks, vegetation, all living things are blanketed to carry on in silence until daybreak.
Early morning and mist rises in small puffs of smoke from the surface of the river as if communicating to all present and beyond the secrets and happenings of night. Of a fallen tree carried downstream, of ripened pods scattering seeds, of safe deposits on various banks, of fishes born and eggs laid, nurtured in quiet pools. A rumbling conversation through layers and guts deep into earth, of liaising with winds and infusing and spreading scents they bring from over the mountains.
Rays of sun gently nudge and awaken senses to an increase in tempo, roused by chattering birds, warming to dispelling of cold and night.
On the bobbing bamboo veranda outside as the sun warms through my body, I slowly peel layers and brace to the flow of patterns on me. — Varsha Nair