Journey

The drop of sweat made its way painstakingly across the emaciated face, clung on to the chin for as long as it could, and then dropped. The sun did not allow it to get to the ground; it vaporised before that. If it had completed this journey, it would have fallen further, down into one of the many deep cracks of the ground.
The soil was barren, scarred with the cracks. There was nothing on it. Then, suddenly, this grave monotony of the earth was broken by a tree that jutted out of the baked land. The tree shared its texture with the land: it was brown, and its trunk was struggling to survive, the hardened wood threatening, always, to peel off. There were no leaves, and the stripped branches pointed upwards, like a claw stretching to reach...reach what?
Above, the sun had mellowed down a bit. It was evening. The heat that had beaten down upon the earth was now calming down. In fact, it seemed the night held the other extreme - that of bitter cold. But the effects of the sun's heat were visible. It seemed that the heat had had a task to perform. That of burning everything alive to death. It was successful. The tree was proof of this.
Beneath the unclothed tree, twigs had fallen. They had belonged to the tree once, but now lay on the soil, rejected. An old, gaunt man made his way to the tree. His movement was slow, so slow one would think he made no progress at all. But he had managed to reach where he wanted. There, standing under the tree, he smiled. It was the first time in many days he had done that. But it was not a happy smile. It couldn't be. He smiled at his fate, and he smiled at how closely the tree resembled him. Both of them had been thrust to the brink of extinction.
The old man stood there, his hands on his walking stick, and, for a moment, forgot what he had come here for. Then he remembered. With a herculean effort, he bent down and started collecting the twigs one by one. The twigs hurt his bony hands, but it did not matter. He would do this, ignoring the pain. His very survival was at stake. When he was satisfied that he collected enough of the twigs, he stood up. He heard his back creak, like a door which is being opened after a long long time. He turned around and, with eyes that had caved in, watched the barren ground. For a moment, he felt he should give it all up. But no, that wouldn't do. He had to go on.
He had a lot of distance to cover. Gathering all the courage and all the strength that was left in his frail body, the old man started his long journey. While he walked, he thought of the famine. It had ruined everything - his family, his house, his village. He was the lone survivor. There had been others too, who had enough life in them to entertain thoughts of survival. But they had succumbed on the way. It had been three days now, since he had carried on this journey, this battle for life. And he knew he was losing. He had eaten practically nothing for these past few days. He could not carry on like this. But he walked. There was still that faint glimmer of hope that remained.
As the day gave in to the night, the old man approached his destination. His heart stopped beating. His eyes grew wet. Anger built up inside him. He wanted to shout, shout, and scream on the top of his voice, "Why, why, O Lord, why?" But the voice wouldn't come out. And he knew that no one would listen. He had lost his faith in the lord long ago, when the famine had consumed his family.
Before him, he saw his fire dying. In fact, now it was just a flame, quivering in the light wind. Nature was playing a joke on him. The twigs, it seemed, were useless. He walked to his fire, and squatted beside it, as if to see it through its death. He looked at it with eyes devoid of emotion. He knew that he had to face hours of freezing temperatures now. He caressed the dwindling flame with his hand. With a gush of wind, it was gone. Nature had decided that it had tortured the flame enough and now it was fit to die.
From the bag which was lying beside him, he took out a thin piece of cloth and spread it out on the hard floor. He took out another blanket, covered himself with it, and laid down on the piece of cloth. His head on one arm, he looked towards the moon. It was at its full, shining gleefully at the earth. His eyes wandered towards the stars. The night sky was filled with them, and they gave the sky a beauty the old man had never seen in these many years. Indeed, they sparkled like diamonds.
But to the old man sleeping down on the cold, cruel land, the beauty was useless. It was another one of Nature's jokes. But he would not give up to this mockery. He would fight, fight till his last breath. He would last the night and continue tomorrow.
Then, the old man smiled at his innocence. Yes, he definitely had the spirit in him, but then, his body should also support that spirit, right? At that point in time, the old man knew that he would probably not be able to survive the night.
It had been a good life, he thought. When he was a child, they had been rich. He was always given the freedom that he had come to love, to respect. He would roam about in the surrounding forests for hours, wondering at the colours, and the birds, and the trees, and the animals. He would sit by the stream and let the cool, refreshing water run through his fingers, tickling him. He would laugh in delight at nothing, and how he enjoyed that!
And then, the day that changed his life forever. The old man could forget everything in his life, but not that day. He had seen a boat. A small boat made of wood and made by hand. He had swung himself on to it and learnt to ride it in the shallow stream that very day. He had wondered at what made the boat float. He had been fascinated with it. He also wanted to build something of that sort.
And so, on the day he had seen that boat, he succeeded in making a small raft. It floated! How delighted he had been, watching his own creation float on water! He had gone home, thrilled, and told his mother all about it. His mother had supported him and had praised his work. Then he had modified his boat everyday, until he was satisfied with it.
During this time, he had also built several other things on his own, like his own desk, complete with drawers and a safe with a lock he had designed himself.
As the years went by, this love for creating things grew, and he became an engineer. He had worked hard on designing bridges and machines which could produce very high temperatures and a clock of huge proportions. That clock was his biggest achievement. The complex pendulum and the gong system that had to be attached to it had proved to be a great challenge, but he had managed to find a solution to that.
When he was young, electricity was a very novel thing, and he had been enthralled by the wonders it could achieve. He had made his own bulb, and helped develop a machine called the motor and the dynamo. They had also been his landmark achievements.
So after a long and a very successful life, he had retired, and return to his village, only to find that the village was all but dead. At fifty five, he had worked hard to uplift his village. The forest was gone - everything was cleared away by some people who called themselves industrialists. He had hated them. The forest had been his inspiration, his starting point. And he could do nothing about it. But he had done whatever else he could. He designed canals that would connect the nearest stream to the village. Those canals had been wonderful, bringing a regular water supply. But they had to be closed as they were not cost effective. The village was simply too far from the nearest town.
And his village had declined.
Then, from nowhere, the famine struck. It came suddenly and unexpectedly, as, in the year before that, there had been enough water for all. There was nothing he could have done about it. People started dying as there was no water and no food. Everyone was sharing whatever little they had, but that was not enough. The nearest town was not helping either. In fact, they hardly even knew about it. The famine had affected several little villages like theirs, but they were on the other side of the country, where virtually no communication was possible.
His family too had died.
His smallest son, a bright man of twenty nine, was the first. He had become skeletal and pale. His eyes were puffed, red. The young man had died when his father had gone to fetch his medicines from the nearest village. His father had not even been able to say goodbye to his own kid one last time.
Then his wife. She had starved herself for the family. Her eyes had lost the charm they had once held, that spark was gone. And he had known she was going to die. He felt helpless. Never before had he felt so helpless, so governed by circumstances. He wanted to shout. He wanted to cry, to scream. His wife passed away in her sleep.
After that, his elder son, thirty three, went into depression. He wouldn't speak, and would stay in bed all day. The man would eat whatever his father gave him, which wasn't much anyways. His face had become blank. One week after his mother's death, he stopped eating. He died, his head in his father's lap. Before he died he said, "You have been the best father dad. And you have been a better man. I am weak dad, very weak. Mentally and physically. I know that dad, I know it. I am going to die. I feel mother and Freddie calling me. But you don't give up dad. Never. You get out of this village and start life there. If not for your sake, then for mine. You have to live dad, you have to." The father said, "Nothing's going to happen to you son. Be brave now. You have been the best son I could have wished for. You are my light, my son. We'll survive son, we'll survive."
"It's useless father. Goodbye, dad, and farewell. I will miss you."
His son closed his eyes forever. He had screamed. He was alone now, in this big, bad world. He had to fight, but he was alone, powerless. All his loved ones were dead. What would happen to him? He would leave the village and make the long journey to the nearest town. He would do it for his son.
With determination, he had packed his belongings, whatever little he had. Withholding his tears, he had set off along with some other men. They had started in search of safety, hoping to support one another. All except him had perished.
Some words he had read in a poem came back to him. It was a poem about an ancient mariner who had killed an albatross, and so was stuck in the middle of the ocean. What were those lines? Yes, "Alone, alone, all all alone, alone on a wide wide sea". Except that this was not a sea. And, he had not killed the albatross. Then why was this happening? He had no idea.
And now he lay on his back, his fire extinguished, in the middle of nowhere. Cuddling himself, and burying his tears, he went to sleep, not sure he would wake up the next day.
He did wake up, but it was still night. He was sure the temperature was below zero. He had gotten up because of the slight pain in his shoulders which was now spreading to the left side of his chest. He was dying, and he knew it. Looking at the eternal stars, he said, "I'm sorry son, but I guess I miss you too much!"
And then the old man smiled his last smile. But it had been a good life. It certainly had.