Of a canyon and a sun

It was worth the wait. This overwhelming of senses was corroboration enough that my trip was worthwhile. I was standing at Yavapai Point of the Grand Canyon waiting for the sun to set. And beyond the ledge on which I stood, and beyond hundreds of tourists gathered around the breadth of the observation station, the canyon unfolded in all its timelessness. “As old as time” – that was the phrase that kept flitting to my mind. I was gazing at maybe a billion years of natural history. I was witnessing the power of nature that can etch a landmark so pristine in its starkness. It was enigmatically beautiful, yes. But what was arresting was the very austerity in its wilderness – earth brown as opposed to fecund green, chiseled layers as opposed to smooth contours. And then, the unimaginable size of it all. I was almost a proselyte – from confused monotheistic idolatry to primeval pantheism.

The jagged edges of the canyon rim were turning golden under the setting sun. Wind had picked up while we waited as the sun came inevitably closer to the horizon. I whimsically wished for wings while I pulled my jacket closer. I mused on inevitability – of Colorado River flowing on, of sun sets, of life, of time ticking away.

I felt a tug and looked down to see my 3-year-old prancing around.

“I want to pee pee, I want to pee pee,” she chanted.

“Can it wait?” I asked miserably; I already knew the answer.

“Noooooooooooo,” came the plaintive cry.

“Now walk fast. I don’t want to miss the sunset,” I said half dragging and half carrying her to the rest room I had spotted near the car park, which to my impatient mind seemed to take forever to reach.

“You are not happy with me.” She pouted on the way back.

I hugged her tight and explained to her that I am of course happy with her. I was only unhappy with the inevitability factor that seems to rule our lives. “The inevitability of your pee pee,” I said, snuggling her. “But let us hurry, the sun has not yet set,” I squinted at the golden glow in the horizon.

“Why sunset again again?” She was quizzical, as she burrowed her head deeper into my neck. She too resigned to the inevitability of her mom’s quirkiness.

And thus we watched the sun set – the canyons becoming golden, then red, then brown, and finally a rusty silhouette against a darkening sky. We went back to the hotel, unsated still, but somehow at peace.

...........................................

Sunrise was at 5:15 AM. We reached Mather’s point at 5, a crispy morning, cold by my standards although my warm blanket of a husband termed it as pleasant. My three-year-old was up too and thanks to some curious turnaround in her mental makeup, she was actually keen to see the sunrise. Mather’s point was crowded. There were two bus loads of Japanese tourists and a convoy of Harley Davidsons, and of course a bunch of photography enthusiasts. Thanks to a Harley Davidson couple’s magnanimity and probably due to my daughter’s rather audible announcement that she can’t see anything, we were given a spot right at the edge of the safety railing.

“Mr. Sun, sun, Mr. Golden Sun, please shine down on me,” I sang my daughter’s favorite ditty under breath.

That was all the encouragement my little songbird needed to erupt into the full song.

“Mr. Sun, sun, Mr. Golden Sun, hiding behind the tree…” she echoed.

“Is the sun hiding behind the tree?” I asked her.

“No, behind the Grand Canyon.” She immediately chirped and broke out into a revised rendition “….Mr. Golden sun, hiding behind the Grand Canyon.” Everybody around us laughed, either politeness or actual amusement, while I silently blamed my husband’s genes for my daughter’s propensity for unrhythmic parodies.

A Japanese tourist beside me enquired whether we were from India. I prudently did not get into the nitty-gritty of the issue but just said yes. He beamed at me and spoke of Taj Mahal. The heaviness of his accent made it almost impossible to understand him, but the fervor in his voice was unmistakable. I nodded quite proudly.

The sun did start to rise at that time and an expectant hush fell on the crowd. We all watched another spellbinding show of sheer gold spreading over one of the most recognizable landscapes on earth, and many among us were speechless – except my little songbird of course who sang on uninterrupted.

The show over, we parted ways, the Harley Davidson couple with a wave and the Japanese tourist with a nod. We hung back for a little while more, memorizing, recapturing, reminiscing. I thought of Keats and his slavishness to beauty. I thought of Wordsworth and his emotions recollected in tranquility. I thought of the transcendentalists – Thoreau and Emerson. I thought I understood them more, standing there on the edge of a chasm so deep and so beauteous.

A thing of beauty is a joy forever – be it a Grecian urn, the Taj Mahal, or the Grand Canyon.