An old Indian tale

Syed Muhammad Hussain | Published: June 20, 2014 00:00:00 | Updated: November 30, 2026 06:01:00

Our visit to our nephew Dr. Shahriyar S. Ahmed and his family in Portland was a memorable one for more than one reason. Oregon Trail and the Indian stories still come alive in those parts. Shahriyar drove us on a longish journey towards the Pacific coast and many amazing sights on the way really put us to the Wild West frames with the fictionalised versions of the braves and the Indian warriors that we are familiar with. Basically we were following the original Oregon Trail that Lewis and Clarke had pioneered some 210 years ago.
One particular Indian Chief after whom the city of Seattle was named stands out as an iconic figure. Not only that he was a celebrated patriarch of the Duwanish and Suquamish Indians in these parts, his wise and eloquent words have travelled down the decades since 1780 (he died in June, 1866). Two excerpts are quoted below to show the greatness of mind and the emotional bonds that he and his Indian tribes had with the nature. They and all other original inhabitants everywhere had only their soles, moccasins and horse-hooves print on the pristine nature. And the carbon footprint and the contamination of 'civilised' people endangered the nature and the natural ways of life and living irreversibly, since all, almost all, such 'nature' people were made to perish.
I almost drifted into a state of day-dreaming. Chief Siahl's soothing voice was streaming in: ''The great Chief in Washington sends word that he wishes to buy our land!  But we will consider your offer, for we know if we do not, the white man may come with guns and take our lands. But how can you buy or sell the sky, the land? The idea is strange to us. When we do not own the freshness of the air and the sparkle of the water, how can you buy them? Every part of this earth is sacred to my people. Every shining pine needle, every sandy shore, every mist in the dark woods, every meadow, every humming insect - all are holy in the memory and experience of my people….When the buffaloes are all slaughtered, the wild horses are all tamed, the secret corners of our forests are heavy with the smell of many men, and the views of the ripe hills and the open blue sky blotted by talking wires, people will ask where is the thicket? Gone. Where is the eagle? Gone…''
I was strolling on the soft green grass admiring the clear blue sky with some fleeting tufts of clouds that played hide and seek with the sun. The mild warmth of the Tepees, with simple, but colourful designs on the coarse fabric, on the supple and tanned pieces of leather and other wide variety of materials, was like mother's caress. I was welcomed into a large one at the centre and I knew instantly I was standing before the Chief. His face showed the furrows of age, wisdom and pain through many moons. He was not bitter, he had that ethereal sadness in facing an inevitable end of all good things he and his people venerated and had persevered to preserve for the posterity. Alas, it was not to be. Ring out the old.
Chief Seahl's voice, calm and prophetic, resonated across once again: ''...yonder sky that has wept tears of compassion upon our fathers for centuries untold…The son of the white chief says his father sends us greetings of friendship and goodwill. This is kind of him, for we know he has little need of our friendship in return, because his people are many. They are like the grass that covers the vast prairies, while my people are few: they resemble the scattering trees of a storm-swept plain…There was a time when our people covered the whole land as the wind-ruffled sea covers its shell-paved floor, but that time has long since passed away with the greatness of the tribes almost forgotten…When the last Red Man shall have perished, and the memory of my tribe shall have become a myth among the white men, these shores will swarm with the invisible dead of my tribe and when your children's children think themselves alone in the field, the store, the shop or in the silence of the pathless woods, they will not be alone…The white men will never be alone. Let him be just and deal kindly with my people, for the dead are not powerless - Dead? I say - there is no death - only a change of worlds.''
Indian maidens, children were going around the Tepees as if there was a festival on. No worries for these spontaneously happy Nature's children. Those heavy matters were for the elders to shoulder and to provide the safety, protection and life's bounty to their people. Simple, beautiful and carefree. And I recalled with much sadness some white pseudo-scholar labelling the Chief's eloquence as 'noble words from a noble savage!'' How could a noble being saying noble words be a savage?  
I don't remember how long I was in this stupor, but I seem to recall the Chief's sunny and expansive smile of welcome, goodwill and, I trust, wee bit admiration for the sincere compliments and respect I had the privilege to express. I saw he signalled the pretty girl near him and she came floating towards me with a wicker basket and there lay two pairs of exquisite leather moccasin/ankle boots.
The ankle covers in tawny, seeded hide had beautiful embroidered needlework, a distinctive pattern that the Duwanish/Suquamish Indian braves wear as they go into a battle. I thought the girl was telling me that this gift is the Chief's especial gesture of honouring his guest. I felt a rush of huge love for the brave people who lived honourably with a natural code of conduct and who perished in honour and glory.  
My wife was nudging me to show me the most awesome sunset on the confluence of the rivers that flowed almost parallel to the highway Shahriyar was driving on in his powerful SUV. He got us down at this vantage point and took some most memorable pictures - the silhouette shots of my wife and me were superb.
Shahriyar chided me for being in deep slumber, when they had done some sightseeing of the tall falls and they did a spot of shopping as well. My wife liked some of the Indian chunky jewelries and some bric-a-bac.
Parvin then whisked out from the SUV a wicker basket and said, 'A gift for you, my dear husband - a piece of Indian history coming alive!' And she opened the lid - there lay the ankle covers with the embroidered decoration just as I had seen in my dreams. It was surreal and in the gathering darkness of the surrounding forests streaked by the copper-gold hue of the setting sun I stood stunned! Thank you Chief, your words again - across the trail and the glowing river, I could feel the rustle of a gentle breeze flowing in with a whispering fragrance.        
The writer is a retired Ambassador and a
free-lance analyst
and commentator.
syedmhussain69@gmail.com