The landscape was mostly flat with the interruption of an occasional hillock. Every now and again, alongside the road or by a shrub or a tree or out in the middle of the distance, bright pockets of color would catch Esther’s eye. Squinting tightly, a small-scale statue could be made out in a solitary stance or with two or more similar figures. Sometimes they were wrapped with ribbon in multicolored fabric in a robe-like fashion.
These seem to be more of those unusual images or icons I’ve seen everywhere, Esther mused.
Accompanying these statues were large and small piles of varying-sized stones layered upon one another. Often there would be flowers, solitary stems or bouquets. All dried to a crisp. Usually, parchment was attached to one or more of the figures with the graceful, embroidery-like script clearly visible on them.
These are like altars seen in every corner of a church, Esther thought, but to what—or whom? She could not begin to fathom their meaning.
Camels frequently appeared along their path, on occasion attempting to cross the road, thus ensuring Marco drove at a slow speed, at times almost a walking pace. Many of these regal animals had riders atop their pronounced humps. Or she observed one or two men walking to one side, taking care that the excessive loads carried on the camel’s back did not come crashing down.
Every few kilometers, they passed what were most likely small villages, not more than a hundred yards or so from the road. But to call them “villages” was no doubt overstating, as these were merely groupings of three or four makeshift buildings. Now and then a tarpaulin or two would be staked into the ground, here or there, providing a modicum of protection from the merciless sun. There were always men—many men—all bearded, garbed in loose-fitting monochromatic clothes, with brightly colored cloths wrapped around their heads. Most often she noticed them lounging alone or talking in a group; sometimes one could be seen digging in the dirt.
But the women! Every woman she espied was hard at work—sweeping, tending fires, beating carpets and rugs, cooking, washing. A myriad of tasks, and always, it seemed, while nursing babies. It felt intimate and familiar to Esther’s own experience many years before, although—different.
No matter how poor the area otherwise appeared, these women were dressed in dazzling textiles of patterns, textures, and colors—each wearing layers of three or four different materials that should have appeared discordant but, for reasons that eluded Esther, made perfect sense in this setting. These striking cloths covered heads and reached to toes.
Each woman wore at least one gold ring in a single nostril, usually the right side, dangling gold earrings, and one, two, or more strands of gold or multicolored beads around their necks, hugging throats or hanging down to waists. Without exception, one large red dot rested between their eyes.
My clothes are far too dull for here, Esther thought, looking down at her faded blue dress. When I have the chance, I must do something about this. It will be such fun to work with these colorful fabrics.
Then again, with her head shaking slowly and reflectively, thoughts drifting, Esther considered: Perhaps it’s not my clothes at all. More likely, it is my skin itself that no longer fits me. I don’t know when I’ve felt as though I were myself, that I owned myself—the self I was once and long to be again. This skin that covers me now is like an ill-fitting cloth, stretched far too tightly, painfully, across my chest and back. Yet, it sags around my ankles, droops at my knees, makes swooshing noises when I walk. Like a pair of exhausted overalls or a houseguest who has long outstayed her welcome.
And the skin on my face, which should shield and protect, well—it is not that it’s aged or wrinkled, merely no longer familiar. The face I gaze at in a mirror does not reflect its true occupant. I must be honest with myself, Esther pondered, for really—truly—who the occupant is remains unknown.
This progression has not been as graceful as a snake that unhurriedly and deliberately slithers out of the old, the worn, like an ancient relic of an earlier civilization. No, this conversion has been a war, with countless battlegrounds and the resistance, my resistance, holding strong. On the surface anyway, the struggles are over; the arms put aside. The fields cleared and vistas arising anew.
What now stands between me—and me? Esther wondered.
What blocks the way to clarity and tomorrow?
When he glanced over and noticed how quiet and pensive Esther had become, Marco nudged her. He shared a warm, embracing smile as though he had heard the thoughts within her mind.
This man brought her back to the here and now, and Esther returned her attention to outward observations. She did her best to thoroughly digest everything she saw—continually looking. Not wanting to miss anything. In awe of these surroundings. So much was not easily comprehensible. Many questions remained to be asked.
“Ah … now … is the time for a bit of a rest,” Marco said, leading the car off the road. Just to the side of the road, that is. No distinguishing signs announced a parking place or resting spot. No markers were represented.
When they finally came to a stop, Esther stepped outside to stretch her legs. She breathed deeply of the acrid and smoky dung-filled air and took in a 360-degree view of the setting. From what she could tell, there was no identifiable difference in this location from any of the views outside the car window these past many hours.
“Would you like some water?” Marco asked, handing Esther a canteen.
Marco had also brought what he called refreshments. Esther had to smile, for there was nothing of substance, just an assortment of cookies.
So childlike, she thought, but endearing.
“Please,” he said with his now familiar broad smile. “Take one … or two … if you like. I am so very fond … of cookies.”
“Do you miss her?” Esther asked.
Back on the road once more, her interest returned to their earlier conversation, a topic of precedence over the myriad questions about place and locale.
“Do you ever think of her, dream of her? Imagine what your life might have been like if you had taken the other path—if you had married her?”
“Ma, fammi pensare … Ah … I have to be honest …” Marco replied. “I do think of Maria Elena … and more often … than I probably wish to admit to myself.” Marco’s face expanded, deep smile intact. This time with a pensive breath.
“I think of her warm lush laugh … and the way her head would toss when she spoke … and those thick black curls that bounced off her shoulders with verve.
“I recall … vividly … her fixed curious gaze when she listened intently … and the many times … nearly every evening … when we would take long walks into the hills beyond our village and talk … talk about everything. But most especially when we discussed all the questions … ‘the whys’ and the ‘for what reasons’ and the ‘I do not understands’ of this world.
“Always … however … with no answers. Never any valid answers … in any case … not the answers I would ultimately seek. But we would talk for hours into the night … wondering … brainstorming … pondering … exploring … and grappling … always grappling … trying so hard to comprehend … absolutely everything.
“And as I say all this now … I realize Maria Elena … il mio amore… my beloved … truly … my other half … was the instigator … the igniter of this spark within me. This spark that would not lie dormant and simply smolder.
“I do not ponder … what if … for I had no choice … of this I am sure. I am clear of my purpose … my fate. Yet … I know … Maria Elena lives within me … always. One’s beloved … one’s immortal beloved never leaves. Whether this person is with you physically or not. No matter what occurs. No matter what takes place … on this … the physical plane. Regardless of how your story unfolds … this person remains with you for all time.”
Marco turned and took in Esther’s presence full on. “I believe … beyond question … you have been blessed to know what I am saying … and do understand this to the depth of your soul.”
Esther froze as she realized he was speaking of Tadeusz. And, too, of her failure to come to peace with him, at long last forgive his actions borne of fear and immaturity. Uncertain how to respond, she remained quiet.
“Ah … and here … we have arrived,” Marco said a few minutes later. He turned the key in the ignition to its off position.
Absorbed by Marco’s comments, Esther had not noticed they had left the main road behind and driven into a desolate area. The setting was not unlike much of the land they had already traversed; there were no defined markings, signs, or structures. They were parked in a site more akin to the middle of nowhere than a desired destination. A few large bushes were scattered about, and a knoll could be seen in the near distance. No people or even animals could be found.
Marco, already out of the car, was rummaging in the boot. Holding a pair of dark blue pants made of thick denim and a pair of hiking boots, he came up to her and said, “Your dress has long sleeves … this is good … but the bottom is not right. Here … these are for you. I am sure they will fit. Please put these pants on under your dress.”
Esther looked at him, dumbstruck. “What do I need those for? Where are we going?”
“Ah … my dear Esther …” Marco smiled broadly. “The adventure … only now begins.”
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
Traveling to the core …
You (re-)
discover your center …
And all that has been …
lost …
forgotten …
or
cast aside.
The pants and boots fit perfectly, as though she had been seamstress and Abraham cobbler, using her feet as the mold. Esther tried not to be astonished. By this stage of the journey’s progression, nothing about the experience or Marco should cause surprise.
All the same, Esther admitted to herself she was.
How could this be? she thought. How could any of this possibly be?
If she were to honestly reflect on her own actions of the past few months, they would be cause for wonder. The motivations that guided the course remained mystifying. Traveling to India without plan, direction, or guidance, let alone reason or rationale, could be summed up simplistically as the desire for escape—to flee past and painful history. Arrival in this country was solely due to intrepid impulse. After so many years of taking full command of everything and everyone, Esther was only now beginning to feel a release—a joyful liberation. This seemed to come about by relinquishing all responsibilities and giving herself over to this man she barely knew yet trusted more implicitly than any other.
Any other since Tadeusz. By some mysterious means, Marco alone had been able to melt her obdurate resistance.
And here, in what must be considered absolutely nowhere and the center of nil, Esther had followed him to a place indefinite and unconceived. Maybe they were traversing a westerly route or perhaps toward the north. This was not of import, as it was the midst of the vastest of deserts without path or guidepost. Only confident trust existed that this was the exact—and only—place to be.
Marco headed toward an extraordinary tree that grew beside the knoll. Eighteen meters tall with a massive trunk, it was covered in a halo of beautiful white flowers. Enchanting elongated pods, perhaps three centimeters long, grew out of many leaves. Esther had never seen anything like it.
This tree looks as though it has come from one of Miriam’s fairytale books, she thought. It seems much more likely to be born from someone’s imagination than to grow naturally from the earth.
As she ventured closer, a beguiling aroma encircled her.
“Ah … of course,” Marco said, glancing back and noticing the quizzical look on Esther’s face. “You have never seen a lebbeck tree … they do not exist in Europe. They are regal beings … do you not think? With the utmost grace and dignity … they are calming and healing. Very useful healers … the bark and the leaves … as well as the fruit. And their oils are all of medicinal value for so many issues.
“Her other name … this lovely one … she is called woman’s tongue tree because of the constant motion and sound of the leaves. Like women … constantly chattering. Well … this just makes me laugh. And … as I am sure you have observed … I very much like to laugh!”
He then let out one of those comforting yet comical guffaws.
“Ah … on a more serious note … it does remind me of a most wonderful poem about another special tree … the Gingko biloba. Quite different from the lebbeck … but equally remarkable.”
Without hesitation, Marco recited:
Dieses Baums Blatt, der von Osten
Meinem Garten anvertraut,
Gibt geheimen Sinn zu kosten,
Wie’s den Wissenden erbaut.
Ist es Ein lebendig Wesen,
Das sich in sich selbst getrennt?
Sind es zwei, die sich erlesen,
Dass man sie als eines kennt.
Solche Frage zu erwidern,
Fand ich wohl den rechten Sinn.
Fühlst du nicht in meinen Liedern,
Dass ich Eins und doppelt bin.
………………..
Leaf of Eastern tree transplanted
Here into my garden’s field,
Hast me secret meaning granted,
Which adepts delight will yield.
Art though one—one living being
Now divided into two?
Art though two, who joined agreeing
And in one united grew?
To this question, pondered duly,
Have I found the right reply:
In my poems you see truly
Twofold and yet one am I.
Marco’s eloquent delivery enchanted Esther. What surprised her was that she felt delight, a long-absent emotion whose return she welcomed. She recognized aspects of herself were returning. Those parts that had been integral to who she knew herself to be from earliest memories. She closed her eyes and drank in these words and the poem’s message.
“Have you heard this before?” Marco asked.
Esther shook her head. “No. I’m not familiar with much poetry. Really none at all.”
“It was written by one of the most glorious … enlightened writers and thinkers of all time … of any time … Johann Wolfgang von Goethe. Most popularly known as … Goethe. One of the few … true … masters.”
Marco sighed, contented. Again, his wide smile.
“I am and have always been … will always remain … the greatest champion of writers and scribes … in any and all ways that I am able.”
A foot or so beyond the tree, slightly to its east, at the edge of the knoll where the ground began to rise sharply, Marco came to a stop. He gestured toward an area surrounded by scree. At first evaluation, it appeared to be a huge pile of rock fragments and nothing more. But then, over to one side, peeking through the debris, Esther spotted a statue, just like those she had often seen along the route. Barely half a meter in height, this one was wrapped in sheer yellow silk tied with a red ribbon.
Before she had the chance to finally ask about the purpose of these figures, she spotted an entry leading inside the mass of stone and heard Marco say, “This way … this way … please,” while bending more than in half to fit through the roughly triangular opening. It was, perhaps, not even one meter at its apex.
“I can’t possibly go inside there,” Esther cried out. “You can’t be serious!”
“This is fine,” Marco responded, the all too familiar smile dominating his face. “Truly … this is the way. Please come with me. It is safe. You will come to no harm … of this I can assure you. This is truth.”
Esther stood outside the threshold for three long minutes, attempting to comprehend what moving forward entailed. The lone word—truth—reverberating in her mind—spurred her on. Standing to full height, closed eyes accompanied by a long exhale, as though preparing for a cliff’s dive into deep water. No other thought or reaction or feeling took dominance, only
a sense of peace—an unanticipated, profound quiet—resonated from her depth.
Crouching down, she followed Marco. She felt no fear now, only slight trepidation as she watched the dim light abate with each step forward. The air itself deepened, its color—an intensifying palette of smoke to platinum, silver to ash to slate, then feldgrau to arsenic and, finally, charcoal. At eight steps inward, Esther heard water splash, and she wavered. Only for a second, though as it happened, the water at its deepest point was no higher than her ankles, and the boots kept all moisture out. She persisted, doing her best to keep pace with the guide ahead of her. At seventeen steps, the ground beneath her was again dry, the water’s source not revealed. Here, Esther was glad to find she could stand to her full height. She found herself enfolded in complete darkness, every crevice, texture, and contrast absorbed by any visible wavelengths.
She inhaled the pitch black’s cool air, reveling in the fact that in lieu of encountering a confining, claustrophobic environment, an embracing generous room now welcomed her. There was an unexpected lightness and a wondrous tranquility in this new situation.
But this space only provided a respite. There was further to go, more to be discovered.
Esther became conscious Marco was at least three arm’s length ahead and knew she must stay near. He did not tell her where to step or place her hand for balance. She understood this instinctively. His movements were assured, with confidence and knowingness. At first her paces were small and careful. One slow, considered step at a time became a pattern, each echoing the one before. Toes to heel—heel to toes—diminutive toes to little heel—each succinct movement precise and purposeful. It was as though Esther were measuring the length of a room, but it was in actuality the length of a life. Her life.
Within the darkness, Esther became aware of every breath. There was no longer distraction. Barely even sound. Though the soles of their shoes were not rubber, stillness predominated. Her thoughts within were elevated and intensely acute.
Guesthouse for Ganesha Page 29