A camel is a monumental animal. Honorable and brutally strong. Persistent, quiet, quintesentially tall. "Raju", said the local man leading the zafari in basic English, "is his name". He raises his hand to height of his white turbant, and with a rough tone, he directs you to mount Raju. You mount it and after 12 hours reach your destiny.
The desert shows itself vast and imperious. The land around is pure gold. The horizon, further ahead, red and rocky. Perplex shadows of green appear timidly, scared, against vast plains of soil that extend below your feet. Plains of soil that extend, like flawless geographical plains marked by vectors that must have been drawn on a draft for a renacent work of art. Your body feels like an aluminum compass. Vertical. Your feet, like a pointed needle. You stand atop an infinite sheet of coarse paper in Western India.
A sand dune, the largest and tallest of all the dunes in this golden cordillera, stands ahead. You set yourself on course to climb it. Prior, you realize: "I am, no longer metallic. I am, no longer, an aluminum plain, a center of vectors." You remove the turbant that was tightly wrapped around your head since the early morning by Mr Desert, himself. You no longer wear the camel- saliba-and-sweat-stained-fine-white-cotton-thread-shirt you purchased in Rajasthan's basari on the eve before. Your body is bare. You let loose of your shoes as fast as you can. Your feet, no longer touch the camel's stomach. Rather, they discover a new touch. Silky sand, feels cold, perfect. You step, for the first time, into an ocean of sand. There is no shade on this side of the dune. The sun reflects on its top but no longer hits your face.
You climb. You look ahead yet find ways to turn around, to move sideways across the dune. It is difficult to not turn, difficult to not find ways to distract yourself before reaching the summit. Silky sand, tuning this unexpected, new, ackward body with the desert. Ultimately, the distraction owes to one single fact. That is, knowing, understanding, and been certain that what you will see at the top of this dune will be vast. It will be absolute. It will be something more than a vision. It will be a memory, that will become permanent, relevant. It will be about mastering the day, through the single, simplest moment. You are sure and certain, this moment, on the summit, will have repercussions.
Repercussions. Repercussions. Repercussions. Distract yourself from the summit. Repercussions.
Bring on the repercussions. Summit reached. All particles seem to have returned and form your body's core again. You are compact again. You think, and better yet, you know: "I am new. I am new. I am, too, desertic."
Over the past 24 hours, riding a camel, I seem to have made mine this dire earth's desire for water. I seem to have made mine the desire to thrive under the extreme sun, to endure extreme conditions, and to persist within draught. Now, there is an an ocean of sand, shades of red confusing themselves with the intense blue that fills the sky above. The sun, impressive, shinning still, as the day ends. The heat, at the late hours of the day, manageable. A dozen camels, resting below the dunes. Sand dunes covering the horizon and spread around in every possible directions. Mountains of gold, of silky sand, untouched by the billion people that populate this subcontinent.
I am in a remote place. I am in a remote place. I am in a remote place. I am in a remote place.
Gold and blue in shades my eyes have not seen before. I stand here in the Thar Desert, about 60km away from Jaizalmer, Rajasthan's largest city furthest to the West, equidistant from the Pakistan border. There were camouflage military bases, military vehicles, and peacocks flying freely on the way before reaching this point. I stand in an area of intense international conflict. An strategic point between two of the world's nuclear powers. An area that has seen hoards of Hindi and Muslims disagree, fight, destroy, and combat. Combat for beliefs. Combat for land. Combat for history.
In the single moment, I too stand here combating, disagreeing, fighting, feeling nuclear against my own history and the present moment. Desertic oceans do that. They make moments, ceremonial. It is easy to be new away. Away from history. On an ocean of golden sand.
I walk on the profile of the summit. And I remember. On one side shade. On the other, the sun, as a perfect circle, setting down. My heart looks aside and suddenly discovers the perfect opportunity for action. The perfect opportunity to allow greater excess to this extraordinary moment. The body craves to run downhill, at full speed, down the mountain of sand. No repercussions. Just run. I run. 45 degree slope. I run. Feet reach deeper into the sand. Hit whatever I have to hit in the way. Fall whichever way. Just run and toss and turn. Be free.
Running downhill leads to trampolines. Of the childest kind. Running downhill leads to laughter and the heart pounding ever faster. Running downhill presents you with the summit yet again. It reminds you, of the opportunity, for mastering the day, through the simplest, single moment.
This pilgrimage continues. Experiences, brutal, transformational, find shape. India is a revolution to the heart and mind. I can only find minutes to uncover fine moments. The desert was one. I hope, to find structure to all of this. The journey, itself, is meant for that. For now, I remain, running downhill, falling whichever way, discovering India, tossing, turning, in awe, admiring, being eternally grateful for this amazing privilege, understanding it, and, every day, being less metallic, less aluminum, and a more compact soul.
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