Home PageCopyright of the text and the images with Arun Gaur Sheep and Lambs of Matiana / Himachal Pradesh / Tripolia-Exploring India-Arun Gaur’s Indian Landscape Images
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Unexpectedly, we came across a herd of sheep and lambs like daffodils in dark recesses. May-2009 |
When in the morning we went to photograph the rock of Shilaru, we heard the bleats of the sheep and the lambs and when we tilted our heads up through the visors of our helmets, we could see the white glistening herd amid the verdure greens of the slopes. The morning light fell on them, if it can fall at all. The shades and shadows were present. They were deep but did not obscure much as they still did not have the sharpness of the day-time. I parked my scooter on the edge of the road and propped my camera and lens against its seat . I always find the distance in the mountains difficult to estimate. The sheep and the lamb must have been between 100 to 200 feet from my position. Perhaps, I would have preferred 70-400 on A900 but 500 on A350 too turned out to be an exhilarating combination. It was quick, handy, very close, and blessed with high maneuverability. It can have its infirmities, yet on the occasion there was no substitute for it. And perhaps, there can never be. I spent around two hours at the spot. The sheep and the lambs were remarkably accommodating to my needs. Giving me ample time to breathe. Slowly, only slowly, very slowly they moved; freezing at times, gazing at me enquiring what I was up to. |
I came across this herd. They were not exactly golden like daffodils. One would say they were white lilies. Cool white was their color. Verdure was the green. How silently they sat there. O Coleridge, were they like your painted ships on painted ocean? Green was the sea. Verdure green. Green mossy were the curving leaves of the sea. |
Am I the intruder, to take sheep from the ram, to take lamb from the sheep? O shepherd, where art thou? Who would save this herd from me? O who would bring them the bouts of salvation? The ram slowly emerged, fixated himself on the scene. Painted himself in pure white and creamy streaks and confronted me. Who art thou? |
After all, who am I? O what art thou? I am a deer. I am an ostrich. I am the furry one with clipped wings. The tawny tones is my throat, my neck. My white wings are of tawny sticks of dry grass. And I eat green. Green green, verdure green is my fodder and I am tawny green with clipped wings.
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You may call me rock-bred. I do not run away from rocks. I want to stick to it. I want to bloom out of this solid rock. Like these small white, these small pink insignificant flowers. I would wait for the blooming. Near this rock.
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Who art thou? Don't ask me--who art thou? Can't you see my strands of hair just like those that you witnessed on the horses of Pushkar, the steeds of deserts? My brothers are in the sands of deserts and I am of the rocks. Their desert sand is made of my sand, the sand of my rocks.
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When ram is my father, why should I care? What care I have? Or should have? You would call me beautiful. In fact, I am not beautiful. All lambs are beautiful. Oh, I can sing with the poet "my barn is unshorn" but I would not sing with him: "my babe is unborn." I feel the sun falls and flows on the edge of my back.
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What art you doing man? Should I keep still? For how long? A small twig of thorns has got stuck into my right flank. Just on the belly. Twigs are my friends. Thorns are my friends. Thorns on the twigs are my friends. My twin is creamy. I am whitish. Both together will rule at least two parts of the world.
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You have taken my wonderful portrait. A bit taut. How my thorn flows! Beads of green spring around me. I am a threat. I will snarl. My spit will flow at you. With the nasal sound. With the strike of my foot I would roll down a rock-pebble at you. But your mirror lens is good. I like it. It is a good portrait. I have never been photographed by you before.
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I am a little babe. And your expectations? Sky high. Rocket high. Sky-scrapper high. O how long, for how long can I stay marble still? Yes my body is of marble. I know it. There is marble in your eye too. I don't like that. I don't dislike that. I don't know what to like what to dislike. Or why? That thorn-stick nicely sticks to me. There are some red blooms. There are some white blooms.
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I look at you and you look away. Though only slightly away. I sit and you stand. Are we sheep? Or are we goats? Are we still fresh? Or are we becoming old? Are we still innocent? Or have we become clever? There is the same darkness the same backdrop that was there when we were little lambs.
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So let's be different. Let me also look away. Let us think over the issues. Let us appear to be a little old philosopher. Estranged and a little shy. No looking into each others' eyes. Donne said let us be two hemispheres. Our eyes are not hemispheres. We won't be fused into a sphere.
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Now let the world go to hell. What to me? In Hindi I would blurt: "Mere ko kiya?" My body is a luxury. It is not gold. It is better than gold. Much better than that. Tan Tan. I would scratch the luxury of my body against the grain of the rock, against the dryness of the leaves of grass. Chocolate of the hue of grass. There is something like almond oval in my eyes.
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This one went into a cove and ruminated. Isolated. Not isolated. I choose to be isloated. Recesses are darker, a little moist. Cool too. Sheltered. For private matters. A little of introspection. To see what life has in store for me. Around me are the curtains of the green leaves and the curtains of pallid leaves. One curtain has patterns visible to me. Other one is blurred. Hangingly blurred. This one I like better. Blurred things are the best things in life. Haven't they said that the ignorance is bliss. My wool is the wool of the green leaves and my ear is the blurring of the gold-tanned leaves.
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He or she looked out of the cove. For how long one can live in seclusion? Isolation? Some intimations of intimacy have to be traced back. Into the world that one had left behind.
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I should look into my feet to find the questions. Nay, to find the answers. Possibly to find answers to those questions. When would I have the golden tanned glory of fur that cascades over me? I should look into my feet or at least near my feet. The answers are there waiting for me.
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Nothing. Nothing. I have been able to find nothing. No questions. No answer. My leg has stretched. Long long. Other is distorted. I have to bend it back. My back is uncouth. My hind portion is uncouth. Ugly. Utterly ugly. Where is that gold-tan that was showering over me? A little tiredness has drowned my limbs. My body aches. I would sit on the stone. Am I jealous?
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My friend you are there. I can see you. Perhaps you can still see me. If you can see me, see how the contours of my body have molded into the folds of the mountains, folds of the earth. That is why I am so happy. I sit on the stone of the earth and I am happy. I smile.
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I also got strength from the stone. I ruminated almost disgusted. Stone gave me strength back and I would smile. I am not smiling. I would smile. Some white flowers are floating above me. Like the wisps of air. I am surrounded with the floating flowers. With the fall of the fur-wool and with the rising spirit of the stone. I sniff the air. I am not jealous. Let me not think like a man. Let me not feel like a man.
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He does not like me. I thought what a wonderful piece of work man is. Then I thought again. Nay, what a wonderful piece of work this threat is. He looks at me. Intact. Without blinking his eyes. He blurts. He snarls. His feathery spit is jettisoned and settles over the collar of my jacket. He hurls a small piece of stone. I fear for my lens. I have no fear for myself. I know I am undone. What a piece of work the horns are. How they produce the twirling motion in the silent air and are lost into the solidity of stone.
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Others can come sliding down the slopes of delight, comfort, leisure. I cannot. I have to see that the stone is hurled and the camera lens is broken. Intruder snapped. There is furry movement of joy near me. I would remain intact. Though a little troubled; but intact. Am I troubled? Since her coming my horns have lost the twirl that was weaving the air with turns.
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I am revived. The distractions are avoidable, if I have clear not murky intentions to avoid. The twirl of my horns slowly come back to me. Though not totally. Let her munch the fruits of life. It is because of me that all munch the fruits of life. Isn't it a source of big satisfaction? Is it a small satisfaction? For me let the fruits be thereafter. Was Robert Browning a fool? That massive intellect. That famous case of the Ring and the Book. Who reads that anyway? I am revived anyway.
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O the man of plains. See the sun in your country is blazing hot. Here it caresses me. O you infamous man of the plains. I have my shepherd here. Among the undulations of the verdure sun. Why should I worry then? His hoof will dislodge a stone for you. He will blurt at you--throw a stone at you, would break your lens. Then why should I worry? I would even smile at you. Smile for you.
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Aha! Let me look askance. I am not scary of you. To sniff the freedom of the free country. Soft touches the softness of sun, touches the cream of my wool, the tan of my mother and the verdure. It is no more verdure gloom; though I like the verdure gloom. I am not averse to that.
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You see the expanse of my green. Now I think you can see the expanse of my green. I sniff the gold of the sun the gloom of the verdure and I am happy. The green is not blazing green; it is verdure gloom. In parts darker green. Black green. And I am happy. I lift my head and beam a smile at you. You are also my friend. My personal friend. What we call in Hindi the langotia yaar. You are my friend, my friend. My very personal friend. I would whisper the whispers into your ears if I ever happen to come down this slope. . Who can be a better friend than you after all? After all?
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