Tag: life

Alive

I’m in the mood to reminisce. About when I went so high, I was both ecstatic and sober.

The mountains, I mean.

There’s something about the hills, about the way they go round and round, the winding roads twisting and turning. The way you traverse through rocks and slides, staring at nothing but an expanse of brownish mass that’s so plain, yet so attractive.

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Who would look at a mountain and expect it to have been around for centuries, nurturing countless monkeys, squirrels, mushrooms, and buttercups?

From tiny dents that sliding rocks had created over the years and small shrubs peeking through large cracks. To even the bigger chasms that open up to disasters during the monsoons. Everything about a mountain is wondrous.

Who’d pause to wonder that such a life-giving creature could also be dangerous? If the earth makes one wrong move, the whole rocky magnificence will crash down upon us. And yet we pry at it, with scalpels and crossbars, and evil hearts looking to uproot the structure that feeds thousands of life forms.

As we ascended the Darjeeling hills, I looked down at the world of luscious greenery and turquoise waters glistening in the mild afternoon sun. The hills encase these small water bodies, protecting them from the evils of humanity. It was a sight I’d hold in my mind forever.

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It wasn’t just the natural scenery, just the joy and thrill of going up a mountain, made my heart race, in a good way. As we elevated, my heart elated. And so did my hopes of going higher and higher. Robert M. Pirsig said, “Sometimes it’s a little better to travel than to arrive.” That’s how it was.

The hills are alive, calling in a reverberating voice you can’t ignore. And that’s why I’d never say no to the mountains.

One Stormy Day

All was well, until one fateful day. My life was perfect until she came along with her bright light and thundering calls. And she brought along with her, a storm that ruined my life forever.

We didn’t have much, my sister Leela and I. We lived alone in a hut we called our own. We would wake up every morning to the spray of the sea and the sound of the waves crashing on the rocks.

We had a small stall on the beach where business was good enough for both of us. We sold fried onions and peppers to beachgoers who loved to sink their teeth into something hot and oily after a dip in the sea. We had no worries, no one to look after. It was just us and our expenses. And sometimes, when we felt adventurous, we plucked coconuts from our backyard and sold them for some extra money.

Our life was perfect. We’d go to the bazaar on Sundays, buy some flowers, sometimes a sari — we’d share what we own — and walk home nibbling popcorn. We’d then spend the rest of the afternoon stringing the flowers, and wearing them in our hair.

Our life was perfect. Until she came along. Out of nowhere, one Sunday, lightening lashed at the rocks. And thunder followed. We had planned to go to the bazaar that day. We had thought of getting a cake to celebrate Leela’s birthday the following day. But the rain dampened our plans. We had to run about our home putting vessels under holes that let the rain in. We sat on our doorstep looking on at the sky. The storm had come from nowhere. No one in the village had said anything about it. Mrs. Loudmouth next door — she had a radio — would have told us if the weatherman had predicted anything ominous. But nothing, the rain stormed on us all day.

All of a sudden, we saw a puppy running toward the water. Leela saw it first. She called after the animal, but we couldn’t even hear ourselves over the storm. Without thinking, Leela left my side and ran after the dog. I called out to her to stop, and pulled at her skirt, but she slipped away from my fingers.

That was the last I saw of her. The storm was too fierce for me to follow. My life was perfect until that moment. And from nowhere, the storm ravaged our home, took my life away, and left me weeping on the floor.

Go

You know you don’t belong when you have nothing to say. You know you don’t belong when you have no reason to stay.

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I have nothing to say.

People around me talk about what that one person told the other person, who that dark haired girl slapped, who followed her home, and about who’s in whose friend zone.

While I stare at my phone, scrolling through fancy footwear without the slightest intention of buying.

But I have a reason to stay. I’m a part of society that won’t let you live unless you endure. So I endure. Though I censure.

I hear a friend talk about her trip around the world, and my insides burn with a yearning I can’t bear. I am happy for her, yet jealousy creeps through my veins, for me. It’s torture to listen to someone else’s stories when all you want is to go yourself.

That’s when I realised: I don’t belong. And I have no reason to stay.

Except, a poor bank balance.

It’s a vicious circle of self-hatred. Which results in posts like these.

Counting Years

I see myself falling in love with great wine. It’s extraordinary that no two wines are the same. I love the mystery that each bottle contains, there’s such mild taste difference that even a day or two means a great deal. I’m still a novice in the area, but even I know how much the wine’s age matters.

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