It’s the opposite of Netflix.
There is no content on demand and it couldn’t care less
about what you want to watch next. A twisting path laid through a patch of
forest finding its feet again, the trail at WII is many things to many people.
What it isn’t is predictable.
The disinterested world is never too far away and syrupy
devotional songs blaring out from unattended loudspeakers as buildings besiege
the campus walls. Miraculously enough, our fort holds.
The raucous grey hornbills feasting and fighting; the confident
trilling of the little black-chinned babbler; the splosh with which the
spot-billed ducks swim away as I approach the trail section skirting the pond –
sounds of distinctly analog nature find a way through and like the sunlight
filtering through the sal, raise the shield of resilience. Beyond the walls,
there is the thriving partnership of cement, concrete and the cash economy; inside
in a space that is conspicuously small, wander those who have little use for
the holy trifecta.
Through sunrises, afternoons and sunsets, I delight in the
trail’s moods and revere the uncertainty of what’s around the corner. I tramp
through its lanes, claiming kinship with its leaves and beasts, sampling its seasonal
cast – birds, blooms, butterflies. Even on a day of no surprises, I soar in
self-congratulatory joy at nothing more than having had the opportunity.
When the mongoose family looks me in the eye and trots on
fearless, when the black-winged stilts swirl around in mesmerizing formation
above the water surface or the nervous jackal finally finds the courage to
cross the trail despite this troublesome biped looking on, I feel a twinge of
uncertainty.
It’s hard to shake off the questions – is plain curiosity about
the trail’s mysteries reason enough, is dedicated enjoyment of its displays purpose
enough, and is simply writing about it duty enough?
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