Wood Voodoo : Magic of Healing from Within

He walked in, a child with a man’s hands, and set the tray of immaculate aromas on the rickety wooden table that our host had graciously provided. Even without the weight of the tray, it groaned and squeaked alternately, and to the imperious crash of branches outside - a testament of transit. My protector, the old pine that stood 60 feet high and took the brunt of the river swollen by an early summer and ice-melt, as proudly pointed out in the day, by my child-man-guide, could easily be my undoing, if it chose to give this hut of mine, a closer inspection.
The night refuses to pass, worries for well-being accentuated by the cacophony outside; and obeying some primeval instinct, so far from the clutches of urbanity, I choose to walk the pagan walk to the pine, and smoke the peace pipe, with my purchase for the day – the ‘tola’ or ten grams of the finest in the world or so I’m told, medicine for the fractured spirit, and sangreal for the many thousands that dot the landscape in this district of Himachal Pradesh every year, both sellers and buyers alike.
Up close, the tree offers solace, support and confidence, as only another being that breathes, can. Seeing faces in its knots, I worry that the day’s travails and have already begun to take over sense and judgment, whilst the wind angrily clutches at the wisps of smoke that have barely escaped the wood of the pipe. Too late, I realize my insolence, and put out my wooden pipe, to appease the heathen spirits. Loudly, I apologize; silently, I wonder at the foolishness.
As on cue, the wind drops. In the now-warm atmosphere, the woods do not seem an uninviting as before. Though the pine still looks forebodingly down at me, and inspires rest and unrest in equal measure, I have made up my mind; I cock back an arm and fling the pipe far into the swirling waters. The leaves in my lap are warmer than my blanket in the hut; and for the first time in months, I find dreamless sleep by the cold river, under the warm pine.