Old Fox

Its 'monsoon' time up north here and rarely does a day pass when one doesn't take at least a fleeting look at the usually cloudy skies. The ‘one’ here is the quintessential motorcyclist. And his 'look' encompasses a vast gamut of human emotions, ingenuity, knowledge, sensations and last but not the least the self confidence. It could be a search, a question, an assessment, nostalgia, just a look or the 'Aha! / Oh! shit' one. The 'searching' one 'searches' for relief from the hot humidity preceding rain and is usually a brief craning of the neck while waiting at a red-light or stopped in a mid-afternoon traffic jam. The ‘question’ pops through the mind as ‘will it or will it not and do I keep that smelly, rubbery, sweaty rain suit before leaving?’ The 'assessment' decides there’s still some time to go before it starts pouring and won’t before he gets to his office while ‘nostalgia’ muses upon and misses the fun possibilities of cloud and rain, like leaving work and chasing them both to the horizon. The ‘just a look’ is the typical car-driving executive who is as isolated from the vagaries of weather as he is from the rising fuel costs as long as the company pays for it.

The ‘Aha! / Oh! Shit’ is special though. A motorcyclist’s unerring companion, it rips through the search, punches the question black n blue, sends assessment for a six, brings in resigned nostalgia and becomes just a look when he enters office like a drenched puppy and finds out that he’s the only one wet. Yes, he got caught in that sudden shower with nary a tree, flyover, overhead metro track, bus shelter, shopping complex or even the extended sun-shade cum shutter of a paan-ka-khokha to stand under and somehow justify all those ‘looks’ except the last. But then, no ‘one’ can actually malign the clouds as long as there’s two wheels running and roads to run them on. In fact, what follows is an ode to the clouds, coming straight from the heart of a veteran of countless ‘Aha! / Oh! Shits’ through his riding life. So take a walk in the clouds with the Old Fox.

Adrift in the vast blue sky, a fluffy puff of nature’s breath is carried softly along by a faint, invisible wind. Immobile at a glance but changing position with the tick of the clock, the cloud travels. See it from high up a mountain and its shadow moves fast in the valley below, undulating in rhythm with the rise and fall of the land, yet leaving no trace of its tumultuous passage. Tirelessly, it rises up the hillsides, without hesitating at the top even for a moment to take in the view, and descends back down just as rapidly. Content and unquestioning in its movement, because its cause, the cloud above, wants to move.

Clouds have been called ‘visible wind’ and there could not have been words truer than these. Technically, warm moist air ascends to the cold high elevations of the upper atmosphere. The moisture carried up with the wind into the coolness condenses back to being water droplets. These incalculable, tiny and clear water drops coalesce to form the cloud. Massive as a mountain and yet lighter than the lightest feather, a cloud is a living, breathing paradox. Seemingly solid as a rock, one can barely feel its presence when passing through it. Stand on a mountainside and feel the cloud roll in. It swirls about you, passes over, under and around you with barely a whisper and the faintest of a soft, wet caress. And yet the same cloud can bury the land beneath in a deluge of falling water, pouring from the dark, thundery skies as an endless river, threatening to obliterate everything in its path.

Clouds are also the lingua franca of the immortal skies. The lexicon, the alphabet it uses to reveal its secrets and even its future plans to the corporeal existence below. The high and thin veil like cirrus, carried aloft and across by the gentlest of winds, tell about clear weather ahead. The small rounded mackerel like cirrocumulus tag along behind storms, leaving clear blue skies in their wake. The soft, white and fluffy cumulus drifting across the bright blue summer sky, usually just pass by. But once in a while, many of these white ‘sheep’ can gather together to form a big one that pours sudden rain upon the unsuspecting ground below.

But it is during the monsoons that clouds take centerstage. The all-pervading blazing summer sun seemingly puts up a brave fight. But the dark rolling cumulo-nimbus, harbinger of monsoon rains, thunders on relentlessly, oblivious to the flaming heat and the shimmering mirages. The clouds have waited long enough beyond the horizon, given enough opportunity to the fiery summer to get its act together, and they loathe waiting any longer. The transition from bright sunshine to dark shadow is sudden and unequivocal. A gentle, cool wind tenderly ruffles the treetops, an indulgent mother playfully tousling her child's hair. A deep but still distant rumble alludes to the deafening thunderclaps that will inevitably come. Every living creature down below stirs up in anticipation of the storm brewing up. The darkness deepens and the rumbling deepens too. The clouds roll on. A brief gust of a stiff wind picks up the tinder dry leaves and carelessly flings them aside. The weathermen call it the 'fore-wind', a gust that leads rain by a few hundred yards and very few minutes. Lightning streaks across the slate sky, a nanosecond tear athwart the tumultuous gray canvas, and disappears. An illusion probably, as the sky doesn't split wide open and even the clouds remain uncleaved. But the crashing thunder that follows harks back to the vehemence of the flash that was. More flash and more thunder. And then come the flood of rain. Seen from a distance, an isolated, single thundercloud seems to be riding a pillar of rain across the landscape. But the monsoon clouds are all pervading, blanketing horizon to horizon, every tiny bit of the sky above and drenching every inch of the ground below.

Long, endless days of rain give way to tiny slivers of sunshine peeking through the tired, perforated cloud. The gaps widen and gradually the Sun reigns supreme again. But that blazing, searing heat it gone. Carried away by the passionate turbulence of the storms and spells of rain that were. The setting sun at dusk lights the sky a fiery red, setting the clouds aflame, an illusionary union of fire and water. And the spreading darkness spawns a new midnight blue and silver landscape, bewildered moonlight filtering through the scattered wisps of cloud trailing in the wake of the thunderstorms that were.

The endless sky is home and hearth for clouds. And they traverse its limitless expanse as ordained by the ageless wind. A concord of almost divine proportions. A bunch of mist, a fistful of air; call the clouds what you may but they exist and remain aloft, above and beyond the tangled, twisted and distressful life below. From their divine perch, they shower water, the life-blood of life, the soul of the living and possibly the non-living too and need nothing in return. Even as a metaphysical metaphor, clouds epitomize the fluidity of the collective mind, suspended in a matrix of changing time and consciousness. They teach us that our reality is forever changing – and shall never be what it once was. They are the supreme nomads, their tribe knowing no borders, their being symbolizing the spirit of freedom in its absolute totality.

Now be good, go dry yourself and get cozy with a hot cup of coffee. See you after the shower.

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Sunny

This is what I am for a few days.

But frankly an absolute delight to read, the narrative and way of presenting is fantastic. You are magic with words!

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Sarvajit

Wonderful expression as usual OF Sir!
Getting drenched in the rain&going to office sure is an unpleasant experience, but the delight of riding back home in a light drizzle on a monsoon day is something no 4 wheeler guy can ever savor!

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Fury

I know there is no need to say it as such, but needlessly, that was an awesome strand of writing; encompassing both literal fluidity in all its senses and an ample portion of technicality....you are inspiring, sir.

moeed

Very well written!! Loved reading it!

Old Fox

Thanks Sunny, both for the approval and the accompanying compliment.

Thank you too Sarvajit. Yes, homeward bound in rain is the best of course.

@Fury: Your single line compresses more within itself than an entire conversation could have conveyed. Glad you liked it and glad to inspire. Thanks.

Thanks Moeed. BTW, you seemed to have done some exceptional hard work on the forum yesterday. You all-encompassing and omni-present appreciation is gratefully acknowledged.

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cursedcrusader

wow..its a treat and a test to my vocabs in understanding as many words I could make out.
I wonder how you have such a grip in narrating prodigy :P
Love to follow your golden rule...sir

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ROCKRZ

I can't imagine what you eat for breakfast / lunch / dinner ?? (kaunsi chakki ka aata khate ho? )
i dont have a flair for writing and i truthfully dont expect i can do that either. its not the content that i am very impressed with, but its the way you have put the things in perspective.. rather I should say, everyone makes dinner (even dogs like me do) but just very few know what exactly they want for dinner and even fewer know how it should be had!!!

I am not at all good at words. hence a very humble line
awesome work.
I did not expect that anyone could convert a simple thing as getting drenched before reaching office into an experience.

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