Ralph Waldo Emerson’s quote, It’s not the destination, it’s the journey; or TS Eliot’s observation: The journey, not the destination matters, and many such pearls of wisdom prove their timeless mettle when tried at the touchstone of experience. The journey is a statement and the destination a period at the conclusion. Many a times, the journey is more enriching than the destination.
My husband’s assignment to Jaipur came as a double bonanza – an alibi to travel as well as visit our sisters. With the excuse to break free from the forced hibernation of the extended winter, we gladly hit the road under a grey gloomy sky with trees shedding tears on our car.
The early morning drive on NH152D was an enthralling, soul-calming experience. The tremendous network of expressway criss-crossing the land is not only an engineering marvel or a mere symbol of progress but an escapade from the choc-a-bloc beaten track. A few minutes on the road and the Sun God deigned to shower His benign blessings. The fog lifted languidly, revealing pristine nature in her abundant majestic glory.
Our car sped on the black tarmac far from human habitation through expansive fields. On either side, fresh green wheat shoots stretched on as far as eyes could behold. Unending expanse of green dotted with quaint rustic ingenious scarecrows. It was such a surreal experience! We were privy to an amalgamation of tradition and modernity – lush fields and lattice towers with festoons of transmission wires, barren kikar trees and solar panels perched atop tubewell pumps.
With minimal traffic, the journey was a sheer delight. The intrusion of green plastic reflectors on the median barricade was underpinned by red purple bougainvillea buds bursting in abundance. Spring surely was set to take over and tide away the winter dormancy. Nature is supreme, its beauty unfathomable. We were spellbound by the vibrant palette of Our Maker. The wondrous hues of the azure sky from the zenith to the horizon were mesmerising: From clear deep blue to pale blue to wispy cottony white. Our mouths agape at the hypnotic visual treat, striving to soak the beauty the eyes perceived.
As the car traversed towards the southern outskirts of Haryana, another breathtaking transformation greeted us. The hostility of the harsh winter seemed thawing. The magic wand had shooed away the winter blues. The landscape turned happy yellow.
Mustard fields donning a festive joyous yellow mantle danced enthusiastically in gaiety to the symphony of the cool gentle breeze, spreading hope and tranquility. How I wish I had the Wordsworthian wit or the mustard flowers like the daffodils lead to penning a little poesy! The limitless expanse of yellow cropland beneath and infinite blue welkin above has been imprinted on our soul forever and ever.
The writer an associate professor and head of the department of English, Hindu Girls College, Jagadhri, and can be reached at kalrasuruchi@yahoo.com