Way before the wayfarer

Up close, I tried to figure out his expression.

He was a poet who has taken many journeys. Who is a poet, I shall not ask him, that’s something his behavior itself should answer. When he smiled, Matsuo Basho’s face turned silvery in this morning dew.

“How long have you walked so far?”

“Numbers don’t matter, do they?”

He looked at me for a good while, my thoughts were somewhere at an end. Following a moment’s pause I noticed he was penning down something.

Now then let’s go out

to enjoy the snow... until

I slip and fall!

Someone was taking a peek at it, over my shoulder. He was my disciple, I know. I would never join in this journey, if he did not insist. He was that immersed in Haiku and Basho. I keep on thinking back of that first moment I shared my knowledge of Haiku – my disciple wasn’t impressed in the least. But he was, as time rolled on. Whenever he talks high of the traditional Japanese poetry form, I would not forget to remind his first reactions.

“Okay I was not impressed at first. Because I didn’t know much about it then. But master, don’t you think everyone needs time to mature. Besides, I’ve given you credits for enlightening me about Haiku in the first place, haven’t I?”

His tone was quite peace-offering though the words stung. I felt humiliated, but he was right. It must be the old age that makes me always go out, play authority over him.

We sauntered ahead, mostly in silence. A coach or two will pass along. A passerby or two will cast a smile our way. Arresting above all is the snow spewing road; labourers were busy raking the heaps out.

If you feel tired, let me remind you this. When you have happy company and no heavy sunshine, your journey won’t be that tired. Not that disciple and I had a mutual ideology all the time, but we always knew how to agree to disagree.

Our silence was mostly because of Basho. This was one serene moment I realized that silence adds quite a meaning to the words spoken. Yes the words that follow a brief lapse of silence had a weight. Especially when Basho spoke up at length.

“There are times I go depressed. I practised Zen meditation for sometime, but even that did not help me out. You have to be toughly disciplined for that I think. I am just a poet that’s all.”

When he is silent, my personal conversations with disciple fell into whispers. But later on I realized it should not be so.

“My life was a struggle,” he would say all of a sudden, “I didn’t have much choice. Sometimes I wondered if I can become a full time poet. I knew I had it with me since my childhood days. But ultimately it was all about indecision.”

We were silently walking a few more miles.

“And later in my life I realized journey was my destiny. I started a journey and reached a destination. When I got back to my routine life, I found myself dreaming of another, yet private, journey.”

“I think that affected your poems, yes?” Disciple asked.

“Very much. I could observe the world surrounding me more than I ever could. Any trivial thing was enough for my muse.”

Then I remembered those lines, and surprisingly I heard them as disciple’s lips moved. It’s strange they say minds think alike at times.

An ancient pond a frog jumps in the splash of water

“Poet,” I addressed Basho, “could you tell us how you ushered in Haiku?”

Basho looked at me, this time so thoughtful.

“We should get to a stopover and then I can tell you that.” Luckily we came across a small teashop before going too far. We stood by the window and I peeked out the window to catch a glimpse of people carrying snow pales, their kids tucking away snow as if it’s one whole cube. “Haiku was not known in the past. Not even in my time at least.” He paused to read surprise in both faces of disciple and I and continued.

“It came to be known as Haiku about 200 years after my death by someone called Masaoka Shiki. But true, I’m responsible for that change. Let’s have some tea while I am at the story.”

We fell into silence once again, until brewing pot was offered with small china cups. Over the hot steam of tea I drank in every single word he voiced.

“The most ancient form of Haiku is Renga. Rengu later came to be known as Renku. But there’s a difference, you see. Renku is a collaborative poem that has a number of verses. But what I introduced has only a few lines and that is only one verse.” Tossing an observation into sharp three lines should be the hardest thing on earth. But then, that’s so. Master closed the journal, drawing a long breath. Disciple’s gaze roamed from master’s ageing face to the cover title that read: Way before the wayfarer. Up close, disciple tried to figure out master’s expression.

Sachitra and Samodh

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