Due to an annoying blister on Rishabh’s toe, we decided against climbing the high dunes, and instead, waded along the enchanting Medano creek to keep thing easy for him. Medano is a seasonal waterbody that flows when snow melts in higher altitudes… four to five weeks every year. Today, the creek was flowing gently on the wet sand, barely above our ankles at its deepest grooves. Gifts offered by this meek river were being enjoyed by one and all – children and children-at-heart were splashing in it and others had found a wet seat on one of its many sand bars that were a foot or so high. Rishabh and I had settled down on one such sandbar. The creek was washing over our bare feet, which were visually fluttering in it. The wind was mild, the sunshine was bright, and the surrounding scenery (above) was impressive; it was a recipe for a peaceful few minutes. But peaceful it wasn’t.
A group of young adults, about 300-400 yards from us, were playing popular songs loudly on their hefty loudspeakers, which they had brought over for their picnic along with their devil-may-care-attitude. This was a national park – the Great Sand Dunes national park– and etiquette of such temples dictate enjoying the place without marring it for others. But these are young people who know everything due to google, and are used to gratification instantly, as if hedonic pleasure is some ‘a-minute-to-cook’ noodle. I sincerely feel sad for this generation. They dig a lot, but nothing much sinks in. They want to smell good, but don’t know how to smell wildflowers. They smile wide for their selfies, but to other human beings, they offer 'smile' emojis.
Rishabh was visibly upset with the wild bunch. To pacify, I reminded him that they were playing one of his favorite songs. “Not here!”, he said firmly. Equally agitated as him, I wondered if this old place had any medication for this new age agony. “Close your eyes and try listening to everything else”, I told Rishabh and did so myself. Slowly waves of man-made music faded from my ears. Cleansed somewhat, I heard the faint chortle of the creek. The giggle was not uniform, but it was rhythmic – the creek knew how to hold time in a rhyme, an art it must have learned from melting spirits of the mountains. Every now and then, a somewhat more vigorous wave would rush through a little sand-canyon and create eddies that percussed like a drum. Braiding with aquatic acoustics, large chunks of sand would now and then dislodge from the bar, splash on the flowing water, and create a roaring crescendo like an orchestra gong. Clearly, the creek was on a song, but only for humble ears that knew how to drop pretenses and court purity.
Somewhen then, breaking the creek’s hypnotism, Rishabh asked, “When did humans first create music?” My son often asks such questions– somewhat silly on the surface, but frustratingly deep to effectively respond. But this time, I had an answer. I said, “Perhaps, a long time ago, when a father and son sat patiently by a creek and heard it warble.”
PS: Zoom into those dunes for human figures, if you care about scale.
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