DARK FLIGHT
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DARK FLIGHT |
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I never liked flying at night. It made me feel dread and uncertainty.
During the brightness of the day, as I looked at the changing landscape
below, I was forever reminded o the solid things of life. There were
the rock-studded mountains with upright trees clinging to their sides.
Dependable mountain streams flowed through the canyons. These were
symbols of strength. But when night flooded the valleys and eddied over
the ruddy hilltops, my assurance of well-being melted away into an
acute expectation of doom. The earth below faded from my view. Even if
the moon rose later, only a vague indefinable mass could be detected.
My visual bond with earth had been severed so my imagination supplied
gloomy details for thought. Maybe the plane was gradually descending
and would soon collide with a jagged peak. Perhaps the pilot could not
locate the landing field. Fears of the unknown made me nervous and
uneasy. Not until the string of runway lights streamed past my window
and the propellers spun to a stop could I rest again. |
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A BENGALI NIGHT OUT |
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There was no monetary charge for going to the outdoor army movie
theater at Kurmitola in eastern Bengal, India. This ten-minute journey
from our quarters entailed certain preparations. Of prime importance
was a bottle of mosquito repellant which had to be shown to the MP's at
the entrance gate to gain admittance. During the fickle transitional
days between the dry and wet seasons, it was standard practice to carry
a raincoat and to wear a helmet even though the sky was cloudless. A
glance at the calendar became habitual, for if the night was to be
moonless, a flashlight was required for the return hike. The pathway
traversed a section of railroad tracks, skirted a few filthy water
holes and may have harbored snakes and other denizens of this low
country. It was advisable to go early to get a good seat. Further
wisdom dictated that a book be taken along to read during the interim
before the start of the movie. With the addition of candy bars, a
canteen of water and a pillow, one doubtless appeared to be going on a
week-end bivouac rather than the evening show. |
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WWW---Where We Was |
Let's give it a TRY |
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"Try and try; try and try." This was one of the sayings my Indian
bearer repeated many times while he was in my employ. The first time I
heard him say it I thought he was having difficulty with the English
language. However, whenever he was attempting to master some new phase
of work or learning, he would reiterate his favorite motto, "Try and
try; try and try." I suppose he thought the very short English word,
"try", was quite inadequate to express such an important action. I
could not help comparing our familiar, "If at first you don't succeed,
try, try again," with his original maxim. Our Western adage seems to
denote a limitation to the number of attempts that should be made while
the Oriental version has an air of the infinite about it. In short, to
me this phrase reflects the endless patience of the people of the East. |
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| NO TAJ MAHAL |
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After repeatedly postponing the trip, I finally visited the home of Das, my Indian bearer. I was glad that I did. Das's house was located in a farming village a mile across the rice paddies from my tent. As Das, my tentmate and I approached, the women scurried into their huts. We crossed a dusty sunlit courtyard which was bordered by the adobe-like homes of Das's married brothers and entered our bearer's study room. The room was a simple cement cubicle with wooden rafters supporting a corrugated tin roof. Wooden doors on two sides opened into the courtyard but there was no passage to other parts of the house. The three windows were merely barred openings. At a glance the room had a cell-like aspect. Das offered us a seat on a low wooden bench, then left to get his brother. While waiting for his return, we had the opportunity to survey his study more thoroughly. The only articles of furniture other than the bench were a high desk, a stool and a chest for books. On the desk, in neat order, were books on mathematics, works of great English writers and a well-worn English-Bengali dictionary. Two small shelves on the wall held stacks of papers tied with string. Das's interests were reflected by the types of pictures he put on his walls. There were two faded photographs; one of his deceased father and one of his entire family. Vying with a colored picture of the eight-armed Hindu goddess, Siva, were modern advertisements ripped from popular American magazines. Also, like any other loyal subject, he displayed images of the Emperor and Empress of India. Dried leaves and bunches of dried berries hung from the rafters. A lone hen was busily pecking at a large heap of gray rice in one corner. The old hen fluttered out the door as Das and his brother
entered. Introductions were made and the remainder of our visit was
spent conversing. We thanked our host and returned across the rice
fields. I have long since forgotten the words spoken that day but the
image of that oriental room is fixed indelibly in my memory. |
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