Worth its wait in gold

It’s been an hour and a half since I saw or spoke to anyone.  I have been sitting behind a small rock by the stream, motionless and relaxed. 

It isn’t the stillness of tension but one of waiting. 

The chances are small, perhaps parsimoniously so, yet one can only wait.  The small-clawed otter is both ‘crepuscular’ (which means that is active very early in the morning – around daybreak – and then around dusk) and nocturnal, from the reports I have read.  It’s getting close to dusk, but the light – and its diffusion – is magical.   

So I wait.  There is no smarter idea, no drone that I can navigate, no rafting possibility – the stream is far too shallow for that.  Besides, this elusive, rather retiring little creature would hardly show itself to a large blue contraption in the middle of a stream, of that I am perfectly sure.  Over the years, it has learnt to keep its distance from people in general, a wise decision, for people do not mean well.  The otter’s future in this gorgeous landscape of forests and streams depends on its memory of the history of interaction with humans.   

This waiting in silence has its joy.  It’s a sort of meditation, though, quite frankly, I have no idea what meditation is.  Sitting there by the banks of the stream, I adjust my limbs and wait out the minutes as the evening and, then, dusk approach with the grace of a retreating crescendo of musical fusion. 

In this silence, one tends to notice and hear everything, not with alarm but with interest.  The ants by my feet (three different sub-species), a number of unusual bird calls that I find maddeningly unidentifiable, the patterns formed by the shadows of the trees and the rocks around, the call of a langur from the hill across the plains, a splash upstream that kindles my interest at once, the movement of small fish in the shallow water by my side and the roar of a car in the distance as it shifts into lower gear on a climb. 

Waiting is listening. 

Every time I wait by a stream, I think of larger things – perhaps bordering on the philosophical.  Some years ago, I read a beautiful piece on Rahul Dravid by Rohit Brijnath titled, “The beauty of waiting in test cricket”: “Waiting is its own art. It requires deafness to fans, it warrants courage for sometimes it is too easy to take a careless swipe."
……And “Waiting is Test cricket’s separation point.” 

True for wildlife too, isn’t it?  Usually, we sit in a safari jeep and head out into the forest chasing the large fauna that only wish to be left alone.  That’s T 20, the short unplugged, click-click-and-post-and-count-the-likes version.  There is no understanding here, no art, but clearly the holler of fanmail primes the careless swipe…..

Waiting is wildlife’s separation point.  In waiting, you are guaranteed nothing and the possibility of disappointment only increases with passing half-hours.  There may be occasional unexpected sights – the rapid drop of a raptor into the water to pick up a fish in its talons or the breathless hovering of the pied kingfisher over the water followed by its dive – and a quickening of pulse when you hear a high-pitched shriek or call that turns to dismay soon thereafter when nothing happens, but for the most part there is silence and you.  When you are waiting, really waiting, the silence is sometimes without, but always within. 

“Waiting is the struggle, with self and rival. Sometimes, Dravid says, the wicket misbehaves, bowlers on either end compose an aggressive duet, over after over after over, and you have no choice, you have to survive this contest, play through it, wait for another bowler and better times.” 

Persist, I have told myself dozens of times in the last decade, just when I was going to throw in the towel, not just on the waiting bit, but on conservation itself.  Running out of partners at the other end of the crease and will you still wait?  I have to force a 'yes' out of myself.  Perhaps the new guy in is the obdurate, waiting type too, for one must be optimistic amidst much of the cacophony of destruction around. Persist, I have told myself, and learn from Dravid. That’s what heroes are for.   

There is a larger objective, though only as clear as this landscape at twilight, and this waiting is one step more – well, one no-step in a literal manner of speaking – towards it, but it’s hard to justify just how this is so.  Most are motivated by the sight of a Royal Bengal Tiger in the wild.  The little, elusive, playful, gregarious, reclusive small clawed otter is my poster boy; I have  never seen one thus far and this waiting is to feel the exhilaration of sighting a family of them for its own sake, seeing them do what they normally do – catch crabs, play, swim and rollick around with stones.  This waiting is metaphorical reassurance.  To inspire one to act more, contradictory as it might sound. But it isn’t.  You wait because the best of bowlers will bowl a loose ball or a bad over and then you can let him know that you have been waiting, not in the hope that he will go away, but in anticipation.  You wait, therefore, for opportunity to knock.  

“During this waiting, does he ever think people are thinking this is tedious? Some, yes. Some are also happy to have him come on.

There are people, you see, who wait for Dravid too.” 

When I stand up to return, dust my trousers and turn back, finding my way to the path ahead, I hear a sound, a soft splash in the water.  Perhaps this is the elusive movie star, but in the fading light I can hardly see my shoes, so I must return.  Tomorrow.
Waiting is hope.