17 The Meditation Centre
At the meditation centre at dawn: the moon is just about to set, and I am walking away from the buildings, out, over, and down through the newly pruned tea fields that are being scourged by a sharp easterly wind. A low scrub grass covers the hills opposite, with a few sparse firs making the sight beautiful but desolate. The dark greens of the trees pick out the contours of the hill, and above, draping the top, heavy, pregnant rain-clouds pass by. From the trees in the estate comes the unfamiliar twittering of munias, flower-peckers, and sunbirds – the soundscape is very different at this altitude, as is the atmosphere, with its cool, refreshing air.
To the south the path crosses over and between ancient rock, grey and black, and the path becomes hard to discern. The light is becoming clear by now, and in the distance the sun penetrates the cloud cover making the river sparkle, and illuminating the green mountains. Beyond the rocks the pathway passes through a small wood, and the birds are disturbed, or curious, as the stranger walks by; perhaps forgetting their song until the distraction has passed, and then taking it up again. A small mountain stream splashes its way downhill, and care must be taken when crossing.
Heading north once more, through the plantation: tea mostly, studded with coffee, and tall trees that give shade and provide support for the pepper also under cultivation, the plant climbing to 50ft or more putting out leaves and fruit in abundance. Bordering the cobbled road are hair-like grasses in profusion. Farther on the dawn has brought life to some workers’ dwellings, simple terraced houses consisting of one large room used for many purposes, the whole family under one roof. Outside, the children play, mothers cook in the common kitchen, and voices go to and fro. Back towards the settlement a hosepipe, coming from the reservoir hisses as water passes through a break.
Above, as the road twists and turns, two schoolchildren are singing, not quite tunefully, not quite in harmony, adding a strange beauty and innocence to the morning. People also out for a walk pass by, some greeting, some engrossed. Around the corner stone buildings come into sight, and the activity of many lives and destinies converge, as the world continues slowly and quietly to bring in a new day. We have come full circle.
there is one in my garden
who has a score of voices by day
and a hundred by night
and all of them sing out but one message:
‘here I am’, ‘here I am’
he’s in your garden too.