Forest

As I am carrying the cake back to my house, I can’t help but wonder how old did I turn today. I don’t know why I am calling this hut a house. It’s nothing like a house. This is a makeshift something. A shelter that’s sheltering itself from falling. I probably shouldn’t badmouth it, after all, it was I who created it. I did a shoddy job though. Forget punching and all, I feel even a strong whiff of negative energy might break it. Actually, a whiff of negative energy can break the strongest of houses. Good metaphor. But in my hut’s case, I literally mean it. Anyway, I don’t know how old I’ve turned today. Or if it’s actually my birthday. I don’t know. Somebody left a cake outside the door so I am just assuming it must be my birthday. I am not young, that’s all I know. I wish I were.

Bliss was it in that dawn to be alive, but to be young was very heaven!—Oh! times!

William Wordsworth, I think. Sometimes, a good piece of literature stays with you. I stopped reading poetry many years ago. I grew out of it. Can you grow out of something which is as eternal as life itself? I guess you can. Nobody writes good poetry anymore. Sometimes it feels like they put words like ‘cloud’ and ‘moon’ and ‘flowers’ in their washing machines and whatever comes out goes straight to the publisher for ironing. Or maybe, it has improved since the time I shifted here. I made this hut, many years ago. In fact the process of my ‘shifting’ started, just when I turned eight years old. I remember the forest was some two kilometres away from my house. I used to pass it while going to school. Even back then, I had this strange attraction towards the forest. There were days when I bunked the school only to explore the forest. I’d take different routes everytime, saunter around for six to seven hours and then come back home. It wasn’t the love for nature per se, it was just the love for isolation, that made me want to go back again and again.

It was my eighth birthday, I remember. A small party was organised by my folks, and the nighbourhood kids came with different gifts. Crayons, pencil box, cake, etc. That night, when everyone was fast asleep, I took my cycle and went to the forest. In hindsight, I don’t know why I did it though. Sometimes you do things that can’t be explained. There is no reason or logic. You just do them. I had all the birthday gifts in my backpack. I cycled for almost an hour, until I reached a spot, deep inside the forest, which felt right. I stopped, looked around for a while and then started digging. I buried all my gifts and sat there for a couple of hours. Just before the sunrise, I went back home and slept. The most peaceful sleep I ever had. For the next few years, I’d randomly buy stuff, and go bury them at different places in that forest. In fact there was this one year, where I buried things everyday. If I didn’t have any money, I’d steal things from my house just to have something to bury in the forest. Clothes, utensils, hammer, keys, bread, books, wire. I don’t even remember what all I buried. And then there was this one night, when I didn’t come back home. I stayed. That’s my last memory of the outside world. It’s been many years since then. I am still here.

I am now cutting the cake and clapping for my own existence. I don’t know who has sent this cake. Nobody knows that I am here. In fact, so much time has passed, I think nobody knows who I am. But I get stuff at my door regularly. I remember, when I was making my bathroom here, a piece of wood cut my hand so deeply, that I cried in pain. I was screaming for some band aid and ointment and what not. I slept crying and cursing the damn forest. Next day, outside my door, there was a first aid box. Universe had finally listened! No, that couldn't be the case. For the next two weeks, I searched everywhere, looking for the person who had sent it. But there was nobody. Since that day, I just ask a tree for things that I need and within the next few days, they are at my door. I wish everyone had someone like this, looking out for them, without expecting anything back in return. I don’t abuse this power though. I ask only for things that I need, and if I don’t ask for anything for over a month, I get a book. A gift by the forest. I read that book very patiently, going over each line multiple times. Thoreau had said that books should be read as deliberately as they are written. If he were alive, he would be patting my back right now. Funny how sometimes the people closest to us are complete dead strangers from another century.

I wonder, if people will ever find out about me when I’m gone. Thinking about leaving a legacy is really selfish, but those who don’t think about it, end up leaving one. It’s a lose-lose scenario. I wonder still. I wonder if people too will wonder how I got all these books and cakes and all this extra stuff. I wonder if they will be able to find the person who was sending these. I hope it’s the forest, though. I believe in magic more than humans. Lately, however, I have been thinking that it’s time to move on. I don’t know where to move on to though. Probably will talk to that kid who comes here everyday to bury things. Or might probably become someone’s Universe’s call. But before that, I wanna finish the last chapter of this book. It probably might be the last book that I’ll ever read. And I am going to read it really slowly. Part of it is intentional, and part of it is the fact that I am really really really old now. Might also call for some chocolates tomorrow. Good life. By the way, after so many years, I dug up a hole yesterday. Just for nostalgia. I don’t know what to put there though. Let me think about it some other day.

Then stirs the feeling infinite, so felt
In solitude, where we are least alone.