Of Missions and Men
"And only later did I see God,
In the bush filled with sunset
and He demanded that I return His world to Him"
By Kornlejius Platelis
The summer heat engulfs me like a grotesque parody of hellfire. In the distance, a field of sunflowers is in bloom, and I am in the bush myself, being bitten by every insect imaginable. In my hands is a rifle, on my head is a helmet, and I am wearing heavy body armour. I am reminded of Van Gogh's "Wheat Fields with crows", painted by Van Gogh in the final months of his life. His descent into the waves of his own mental illness were marked in that painting, the bright wheat fields, the crooked birds, the distorted sky, all elements of a tortured, disintegrating mind. As the temperatures hit 40 degrees celsius and I realize I have no water left and there is no shade either, I wonder if I have spent the last few months, if not years, in a similar kind of dissolution. My chest feels heavy, my rifle is still raised. I can hear the distant sound of men moving through the bush towards me with hostile intent. An abrupt stillness descends ostensibly from the sky bringing a familiar monotonous whine to my ears. I am in a deserted village in Bulgaria, and men with hostile intent are closing in on my position. My radio doesn't work, my heart is pounding, my skin feels like it is tearing itself apart, and suddenly, there is a rush of movement.
In the aftermath, I survey that I am the victor. Small red bumps cover my arms, the pellets have chiseled away at my stinging skin. I feel the return of the orchestra of damaged nerves, a symphony of wounds from a different era. A few minutes later, I summon every ounce of will I can, searching the depths of my soul to return to friendly territory where I ask for water, and I am given a small bottle of cold water. I drink this elixir, attempting to wash down the scourge of the sun, the weight of my physical form, and the burden of my own memory. My skin is a bed of fire, my ears are still ringing, everything is a distant haze but close, viewed as if through a broken shard of stained glass. I take off my armour, relieved for a fleeting minute as I breathe in deeply. I take off my helmet and lay my rifle on the dirt path in the middle of a small clearing. I collapse on the gravel path under the twisted shade of a dying tree. The heat of the sun radiates from the warm gravel path, and as I stare at the sky my breath becomes ragged. I wonder if I could be evacuated from here, I wonder if I could go back home; an incomprehensible lifetime away. Home is a disorienting abstraction, a hurricane of memory continents and eras away.
I think of all the things I wished I could have done, my heart beating against my chest in search of a frenzied freedom. All of my grief, of love found and therefore lost becomes a comforting darkness. I could close my eyes now and surrender, returning the world to any one of the vast pantheon of the Gods. As my mind absolved itself, I wondered if they wanted this world any more than I did.
Time has passed, I am running through the bushes. Men are chasing me, the loud cracks of their rifles firing at me fills my ears. I can see my destination now, hidden among the trees. I have a hundred meters left. My rifle is still in my hands, and the orchestra of broken nerves reaches a crescendo. I must reach the safety of the final destination, safety beckons me. My muscles protest against the heat, my mind rages against the idea of moving forward. I have known nothing else except the nature of movement.
I suddenly feel the searing assault of innumerable pellets tearing my back. I collapse into the field under my feet. The firing still continues till the range master orders a ceasefire. The vast canvas of the sky stretches before me. I cradle my rifle, my heart struggles for its liberation. The thousand farewells, in hotels and airports, the impermanence of time, the regretful longing that can find no reconciliation blanket my soul. I question whether the world can be returned to the Gods above, and I cannot find an answer.
Covered in sweat, insect bites, pellet wounds and dirt, I return home. The field training simulation is an irregular affair. My return to my apartment is a silent journey through the countryside, blazing hot in the afternoon sun. Rows of cottages, factories and open, infertile fields flow past me. My car is racing down highways and past small villages, the journey itself a reminder of purgatory. The distance between two places, separated as they are by the vastness of geography increases forever. The taxi driver says nothing. I reveal nothing. When I reach my apartment I survey my body, standing in front of an old mirror. I am covered in wounds, from pellets on my arms and across my back. For a brief moment, I am reminded of whip marks and welts, distant relics from my time in boarding school. Juvenile infarctions led to corporal punishment then, wounds healed over time leaving little scant physical evidence. My wounds now crisscross over each other painting a Jackson Pollock. This has happened before, this will happen again.
I survey the damage, and apply some salve or the other, and ready myself for a meeting on a research project. For a moment I wonder if I truly need introspection. On the wall hangs my medical degree framed in dark blue, and I am reminded of the seven years I have spent in search for a solitary truth. There is no art on the walls, there is barely any paint. This apartment was a home only once. It is, otherwise a holding cell, narrowly utilitarian and a tomb of memory struggling between the twilight of recall and forgetting.
There are eras within my memories, roads I have travelled, and they find their only acknowledgement in the degree. Hanging as it does in no place of affection, it is an abandoned altar to no God or higher power. Approaching my desk, I see the book of poetry I bought in Antwerp, a thrilling artifact of a summer gone past. Inside it is a small note from the owner of the bookstore. Abstract advice about heartache and distance is scribbled hurriedly because Time was of the essence. As my fingers graze gingerly over the spine of the book, my body feels like it has finally come apart at the seams.
A lifetime of living with the idea that my body is an amusement park now admits that the rust has settled. The religious texts prescribe atonement, the salve of a wounded soul. The world prescribes further heartbreak, distraction within the mundane.
A brother of mine, distant in the geography of things but close in matters of my soul, always told me that he came back from the field training exercises "with something". I have come to the same conclusion with painful accuracy, and I know that I will take a day or so to recover. It being Summer, and me being in a transition of life between one milestone and another, I am lucky I don't have duties at the hospital. Covered in wounds, cuts, bruises, coughing and feeling the dreadful weight of my own exhaustion, I manage to complete the research meeting. I include some tidbits on general and abdominal surgery along the way. I am the teacher now, the Indian doctor, the eternal student, the wayward elder son, the promise of a successful future. In the forests and the bush, I am incomprehensibly something else. There is a duality here, one that finds peace with the other, and I have lived too long to find any other reconciliation.
In the blaze of the setting sun, the dying light thrashes in its transition towards night. I sip a glass of water on my balcony, wishing for something more tempting. I play my guitar, awkwardly strumming along to a song that no one else really knows. In the street outside my apartment, the young and old walk towards their destinations, holding hands or holding conversation. I strum my guitar and think of the day gone past, a mission completed, another one in a long line of missions that have become landmarks for my memory. The only sin has been to consider that this world, fought and bled for, needs to be returned to any God. This is the secret world, a world of missions and men and no demand from any God would make me return it.