Life From Rocks

Driving back from Baramati in a Tata Sumo packed full with passengers and freight, I stared up the valley walls at the rising tabletops of the Deccan Plateau. Crusty red earth spread to the horizon. The air dry as a desert and the land like tinder. On the valley slopes, smoke puffed up, filling the air with black soot that faded eventually into the brilliant blue sky. I asked about it and the driver responded with a classic Indian head waggle. I pressed and he said that wildfires occurred frequently during the hot season. His tone and comment suggested regularity, so my concern passed. We arrived into Asia Plateau, where I unpacked and quickly forgot the thought.

It was my last week in India and the moments passed easily – learning simple Chinese phrases, taking walks to the plateau and enjoying the final tastes of homemade curries and dals. But surprise struck one afternoon as I lazily sipped tea under the shade of a eucalyptus tree. I smelled smoke. At first, I thought nothing of it. In the Indian countryside, the smell passes through the air from the many fires used to bake chipatis and burn natural waste. I’d grown accustomed to it wandering through the air and wafting under my nose. Yet this time, the scent punched hard – pungent with proximity. Lifting my eyes, I watched with interest as a number of men moved hurriedly down the hill to the gates of the conference center. Curiosity pushed my legs in their direction.

The brush near the gate burned with vigor. The smoke, once faint, gained intensity towards the base of the road. Heat blasted my face and the fire spread, not raging wildly, but somehow everywhere. Flames here, another burst there. I observed the firefighting methods of the men carefully and thrust myself into action.

With water limited for conservation, I took my hands to some dried brush and began to thwack the fire in hopes of suffocating the flames. Furiously, I raised the collection, took aim at the flames and smashed hard at the source. Sometimes it worked, other times it beat back, the oxygen pushing the flame further a field rather than to extinction. Ash circled around. My sweat flowed in response to the heat. We didn’t work together, but not as individuals either. Like a gang in a barroom brawl, we bashed at our individual opponents, occasionally turning around to team up on a particularly difficult foe. Slowly and with great effort, the tide turned.

When we stamped the last of the fire, I felt the rush of jubilation. Challenge raised, response overwhelming. The smoke continued to rush skyward, but the hiss and crackle of burning brush had long since faded. I surveyed the territory. The fire left a sizeable chunk of earth charred and undergrowth incinerated. The men’s faces, wet with sweat and smeared with soot looked spent, but relieved. We had stopped any major structural damage to the buildings. Exhausted, we retired from the heat of the fire to the continuing heat of the midday sun, dodging inside to wash our faces and sip the cool refreshments prepared by the village women.

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Two and a half years have passed since that wildfire. Burned into my mind, the memory came up as I once again climbed through the Deccan on my way to Panchgani form Mumbai. Now on the other side of the year from the hot season, the bus passed through the valley and up the slope on a brilliant and cool day, surrounded by a sea of green countryside. The cracked red earth of April became the bounty of August, lush with the spoils of the monsoon. After crashing for a night in Asia Plateau, I woke up and wrote this in my morning quiet.







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Thankfulness fills my heart. The monsoon rains gifting new life to the tablelands and her valleys below. Mist tumbles over the plateau, sweeping down like a waterfall.

I don’t ever recall being in a place that teemed with so much life. The restless bugs that crawl on my body and across the stone ground. The lone caterpillar loping about – the wavering curl of his back. The constant chatter of song birds, welcoming and waving at the morning light. Above them all, the whistler. Her clear, full tune must be the envy of all. The flying insects buzz and flutter in and out of sun and shade. The single, giant ant and her constant legs, running wildly.

The grass green as if newborn. White blossoms bursting from their cradle. Trees of such variety they dazzle with a million hues. Forest so dense that eyes cannot penetrate their depth. Creepers shooting up and down building walls and across footpaths. Petals, fresh and full, reflect the shining sun. Life popping from the red rocks – where it seems no plant should grow.

The rain and water arrive in abundance to give life and opportunity. A lesson that even in the driest place, the darkest night or the hottest soil, life can rise and transform the landscape from desolation to symphony.

But how can a plant grow from a rock?
How can a seed thrive without soil?

The rain answers these mysteries by outpouring spirit into a desperate land.

I turn again to myself and ask: “How might I be a drop of rain amidst the monsoon – that I may be a part of life-giving when it seems that life has gone?”