Leaving behind slave hood
The Unexpected train journey through Inverness. Part #2
Happy Sunday everyone. I have been in my village. I write this as I hear a faint but audible downpour of rain. It has been raining since two days now. Finally feels like monsoon! Everything is green. The birds are hiding away in their nest and the smell of smoke has filled the air. Rain and smoke are a weird combination. The mix of smells are enjoyable on a quiet afternoon like this one.
I think my generation is the most lost generation when it comes to sitting quietly and doing nothing. When I am around people of my age, I am baffled to see them in front of their screens at all times. Silence is a scary thing for them. Here though, I am with granny and grandpa who have never really used phones. Grandpa, because of his Parkinson’s disease, cannot use one even if he wants to. I sit quietly in the backyard, while grandpa sits on the swing, looking out at trees and rain. For my generation, I am looking out at nothing. For the urban people I am wasting time, which I could have used to work on something productive. But deep inside, I know that I am using this time to heal myself.
Anyway, here is the part 2 - continuing from the previous post about my life in Scotland. Here’s the PART 1 if you haven’t read that.
Part 2
I called a friend who was aware of my situation. I was bursting with joy and happiness, knowing that all this was finally coming to an end. When I had hung up, I went past the bed and sat down to meditate. My lungs were pumping out oxygen like never before, my hands and feet, although sore from the work so far, had a feeling of lightness. Nothing mattered. I remembered a phrase from Zen Buddhism, ‘all that arises, passes, and that I know’. It was true. Only a few hours were left between the gardener-self and the free-self. All the good memories were floating like a stream that met the vast sea of my being. I wasn’t a droplet in the pond, I was the pond itself. Although this moment of clarity only remained for a short interval and it went away with the same swiftness like when it had arrived, not every moment was bad after all. I remembered the occasional sitting around the barbeque and narrating life-experiences with the couple. I visualized the instances when I was assisted by the owner. I thought of all the fresh strawberries I ate. It was the most wholesome loner experience of my life. I could have never dared to think beyond my constricted thinking if it were not for this journey in Huntly. The memory of standing in person next to the bow-fiddle rock, and appreciating the sunset, the seagulls, the wind, the waves, the light of being itself, all that was enough to bring me out of the fictional internet reality. It was enough to change my life-trail forever.
It was 7 pm, my final dinner in the house. I opened the door and walked quietly down the staircase. My eyes were appreciating each detail of the house. The flowers, the paintings, the flooring, the richly painted walls, the golden brims, chandeliers and the rest. The house itself was a 20th century masterpiece, which was built by a chemist to fit his needs. The main entrance led to a verandah, to its left was a reading room, alongside that was a dining room with fireplace and detailed paintings from the 20th century. The dining table itself was humongous, enough to seat 14 people. Finely placed cutlery sprawled around the room and a glass window, spanning an entire wall, opened the room to majestic views of Battle Hill. A colossal living room was set next to the dining. It had a fireplace as the center of attraction, and red sofa sets on either sides. Finely worked wooden furniture was laid all around the room, making one feel the excellence of the master craftsman who must have made all that. Two taxidermy sculptures of deer’s kept a watch on the guests, and another one looked outside at the garden. Another wall-sized glass window opened the room to the fine rays of Scottish sun which from afar looked like silk. The mansion itself had a strange feel of the 18th to 20th century life of the British novelty, although I was reminded many a times by the owner that this is a tiny house compared to the ones that our friend’s own. I could very well imagine parties being hosted in the colonial grandeur. I won’t lie, I would have done the same if I had inherited such a mansion. Although this one wasn’t inherited.
A glass greenhouse extended the living room and led it to the garden. I used to water and brush the tomatoes here. You would ask, what is brushing tomatoes, well, an electric toothbrush was handed onto me to manually pollinate the tomatoes. Now, because the greenhouse was sealed, no bees could enter it to naturally pollinate, this exercise mimicked what bees did at large. It would be an understatement to state that I was educated in practical matters of living an off-grid lifestyle.
Experiences had already turned into memories, once I knew that it was time to leave all this behind. I walked towards the basement, which in the 20th century used to house house-workers. They ate and slept here. Now, owning to the post-colonial times, this space was turned into a kitchen, a living area, working area and storage space. I opened the door and entered in. She was making dinner. Something hinted that there was a change in the air. She had accepted that I was finally moving on. Maybe a call with her partner had made a change in her attitude. Whatever it was, she wasn’t angry at me, and if she was, she was well good at pretending that she wasn’t. We sat on the dining table and together ate a final meal. She asked me my future plans. Sometimes, it felt as if she was asking it out of curiosity, but at other times it felt as if I was sitting in an interrogation room, being cross-questioned. I kept my ground. She asked me why I didn’t say any of this earlier, there was still a lot of work left. I sat in silence and ate my meal while only giving the reasonable answers to her questions.
A jinn, it seems, had taken over me ever since I entered that house. It made me think of the owners, as my masters, and I, a slave. I think that there must have been some moments throughout my stay that made me believe in such a way. I am reminded of one such moment, when I was scolded upon, for merely speaking with strangers on a walk. ‘We are doing you a favour by keeping you here. No one would do such a thing’, he had said, in anger and panic, when I had narrated an incident. That statement wasn’t true at all. No one was doing a favour. They needed me more than I needed them. I always had options, I had friends to fall back upon. I had distant relatives. And if all that was not enough, I certainly had enough money to buy a ticket back to India. What brought me here, was a sense of adventure and what kept me here was a sense of guilt. I stayed, even after working on back-breaking assignments; digging through dirt, sifting through mud, glasses and rocks, raking the garden, moving huge bags of coal, scrubbing endlessly the rust-laden pipes, railings, painting walls and metal, watering plants, weeding the garden, picking fruits, washing dishes, cleaning floors. I wasn’t someone who had no other option in life, or someone with no other skills, I was here for an adventure which had turned into a nightmare, and I could never explained what was exactly happening to me. I was always a subordinate.
Her strange questions had put me back into a state of mental torture. I walked up to my room and locked the door, checking twice that it was firmly locked. I wonder what I was so scared of! It wasn’t like I was going to be murdered that night, but I was brought to believe that it could be so. Fear had infused every corner of my body. I was trembling, knowing well that I had a night to spend in this house. Sun had set by then. It was the start of summer, hence the days were long. I quietened myself and sat on a chair looking at the church and the hill past the boundaries of the garden. Dark, crimson rays of the setting sun were painted on my skin as I sat thoughtless witnessing the grandiose of life. ‘This experience can last me a lifetime, and I wouldn’t change it for anything else’, I thought.
What is it that creates these narratives; that something happening is good, or that it is bad? What makes up for our perspectives? One sentence is enough to turn a pleasant experience into a destitute one. And yet we are all but witnesses to these experiences. Nothing is good or bad, everything is. It just ‘is’.
I recollected my shattered sense of self, put it together in pieces, prayed to be spared from this one situation, one final time and went on to pack my bag. I wasn’t carrying many clothes, most of my stuff was lying in the attic of my friend’s house. It took me no longer than 5 minutes to pack. I switched off the lamp and slept on the bed. Fifteen minutes or so and a million thoughts had run through my mind. I had no idea what was to come tomorrow, or what my stay in Edinburgh would look like?
-
I woke up. Nothing had happened throughout the night. I fell asleep after twitching and turning sides. A friend had called late in the night to check up on me. It was 30 minutes past 5, and I was ready enough to leave if I had to at that moment. I no longer had to think of cleaning and eating my cereal before getting onto the heavy labour work. And yet I didn’t want to be sitting at the train station for another 2 hours. I stood there dumbfounded, knowing well that she was up before me, and that I had to ultimately face her before I left. After checking up on the sheets and tidying up the room, I showed myself to the kitchen. It was 6:30 by then. She was already in the kitchen.
For some reason, I was thinking if I should eat or not. I know, sometimes things in the west are a bit too practical. I know of a friend who pays rent when she goes to stay at her parents’. In that sense, I was wondering if I was a guest or a worker or something else, now that it was time to head out. She was extremely practical in her speech, I had guessed it right. She wasn’t too happy for my staying any longer, and yet in a sarcastic tone, she was asking me to stay longer, that I was a great help. I knew her far too long to see the sarcasm in her speech. Alas! I thought, there are no stores open at this moment, and I wouldn’t find anything to eat. And so I went to the cupboard to make one last bowl of cereal. She would have said no, but for some reason, she kept quiet. She didn’t speak a word and kept doing her work as if nothing was happening. And finally, when she spoke, (seeing that I was getting ready to head out) she said, ‘Oh. Can you bring your sheets and pillow covers down and put them in the washing machine? Thanks’
I really had no words left. I had lived with her for over 2 months, ate with them, made food on occasions, and this was the first time she thought of the sheets being infected of Covid. I, for instance, would have never asked anyone who had lived in my house to even clean up, because whatever it was, at the end of the day, they were guests and most importantly, humans. All the good thoughts in my mind about her had drifted away, and they had made way for really negative thoughts. I swore to leave the house in an instant and not to stay in Huntly for another moment. I ran up, collected the sheets and came back down to the washing area. As if two months of labour wasn’t enough to entrust some dignity in me, at least at this moment of parting. Whoever she was, whatever her designation was, whatever her wealth had made her think or believe; this was where I saw the colonial mindset creeping in from the back door. I wish she would have laughed and spoke of all the good times we had. That would have been enough to not keep a lingering feeling of despise in my mind.
Once done, I picked my backpack and made my way out. She knew the train was only after 7:30, so she said in a dignified way, ‘I don’t mind if you stay until then’. But I had enough. I would not mind sitting on the bridge overlooking the Deveron river and watching pigeons if I had to for the rest of my time in Huntly. I just wanted to feel free once again.
‘No. Thanks. I will take your leave now. Thanks for the stay’, I said while entangling laces on my shoes.
‘Oh. Let me see you off to the station then’, she said.
Truth is, I didn’t want to see her any longer. And although I did not hate her, in that moment I wanted to be left alone, but I couldn’t say no to her. I didn’t utter a word. She put a coat on and locked the door as she got out towards the staircase leading to the gate.
As we walked towards the station, the early morning mist was slowly lifting, revealing the serene landscape of Huntly. The sun was beginning to cast its golden rays upon the hills, giving them a warm and inviting glow. The river flowed peacefully alongside us, reflecting the changing hues of the sky. It was as if nature itself was acknowledging my departure, offering its silent farewell.
As we reached the train station, I turned to her and said, "Thank you for everything. Despite the challenges, I've learned a lot during my time here." She nodded, her expression softening, perhaps recognizing the complexity of our shared experience.
"I hope your photography job in Edinburgh brings you fulfillment and happiness," she said, her voice genuine.
"Thank you," I replied, genuinely touched by her well-wishes. "And I hope you continue to find joy and beauty in this place."
We stood there for a moment, the weight of unspoken words hanging in the air. It was a moment of closure, a final acknowledgment of the time we had spent together.
"Well then, take care," she finally said, extending her hand for a handshake.
I shook her hand firmly, feeling a mix of emotions. "You too. Farewell, Huntly."
As I turned to board the train, I glanced back at her one last time. Our eyes met briefly, and in that fleeting connection, I felt a sense of understanding that transcended our differences. The train doors closed, and I found myself a seat by the window. As the train pulled away from the station, I watched the familiar landscape recede, leaving behind a chapter of my life that had been both challenging and transformative.
As Huntly disappeared from view, I leaned back in my seat, feeling a mixture of relief and anticipation for the journey ahead. The uncertainty of Edinburgh held a promise of new beginnings, of a chance to rediscover myself outside the confines of that garden-house.
And as the train chugged along, I couldn't help but think about the words I had read once: "Nothing is good or bad, everything just 'is'." In that moment, I realized that my time in Huntly had been a chapter of my life, neither wholly good nor bad, but a part of my journey that had shaped me in ways I hadn't expected.
With a newfound sense of freedom and a heart full of gratitude, I closed my eyes, allowing the rhythmic motion of the train to lull me into a peaceful state of reflection. The past was behind me, and the future was an open canvas waiting to be painted with new experiences, challenges, and discoveries.
"The only way to make sense out of change is to plunge into it, move with it, and join the dance."
- Alan Watts
I want to genuinely know what you think about this..
Do you have any such stories? Share them in the comment section.
Thanks for reading. If you are still here, I would take this moment to direct your attention to a book I have written. This book is almost 2 years in the making. In 2022 I left off on a walk across India and ended up walking 1800 km from Narvan on the west shore, to Visakhapatnam on the east shore. Initially to document the issues plaguing rural India, the project unfolded to become an unforgettable voyage of self-discovery; involving sleeping in unfamiliar places, venturing alone through the Naxalite insurgent jungles, and even being interrogated in a jail cell.
After contemplating on what is the right way forward, I have come to the conclusion that I will self-publish it- and I did. If you are interested in reading about my journey and supporting me to become a full-time writer, please consider buying “Journey to the East”- which is currently available through my website. www.ashutoshjoshi.in
If you would like to help me out in other ways, you can buy me a coffee via paypal, www.paypal.me/ashutoshjoshistudio. You would think that a couple of dollars/pounds won’t mean much, but it does, especially in India where it is difficult to make ends meet as an artist.
You can buy my first book “Journey to the East”, a memoir about an 1800 km walk through India, through my website .
If you would like to buy prints of my photographs, you can choose the photographs you like on my website and send me an email. I will send you custom quotes for the sizes you’d like.