The hilly tracks are merrily mysterious and offer surprises at their every turn. When, the nature asks us to be vulnerable, never shy away, and to be awe struck you may not even pay a penny and collect a lifelong priceless treasure, for making the every minute worth. Invest!
Adventure and uselessness are country cousins, ensure to meet and greet them on the way, flip away your inhibitions and open up your long unused imagination, before it rots away for good. Let it touch the Firs and Deodars, the needle sharp leaves are slippery,
Tread with care, else you may hurt the hills.
No plastic money please, only a few, very few currency notes to drink a cup of hot ginger tea and a cheerful yapping with the old tea seller, or playfully, pick up, half a kilogram of apricots from the peachy kid, sitting on the rucksack, like a stuffed toy.
If one can keep away from the mobile phone, one can hear a musical, water gurgling, from a hidden brook, which appears and disappears from nowhere, you may kick and pick up a pine cone, full of nuts, or a wildflower as bright as the happiness, herself, if you may have seen once.
My feet had taken me a long way, down the hill, they say, the memory lanes are narrow.
This was a fine one, intricate enough to be intriguing. The air was inviting me, on and on, and my cluelessness was my GPS, breathing naturally, I was becoming one with the light breeze. Completely letting myself go, ‘me’ the mind, jumping from one branch to the other bough, like a bunch of twenty footloose children.
Among the dense bushes, and fruit trees, rustled my scattered mind. Shabbily, as I clamoured along, suddenly, the evening had dipped her feet, in a watery vermillion red paint, probably, to walk away, she had turned rosy, the overcast of the olive leaves too became a shade darker, almost deep red and maroon. I sensed a transition, a bird fluttered, tapped the wings and flew past, seemingly had done away with the day, it was a time to go home, Yet, I was undecided.
I smelled a familiar scent, and looked around, there were bunches of green lemons hanging from, a not so high bough, reminding me of a fragrance, I bowed down to pick up a freshly fallen twig, as, The narrow space had offered me a lemon leaf, my thoughts took off vertically from that refreshing, small airstrip.
The way back home, was starry and clear.
Another green and fleshy bookmark, another night to mark the pages.
I witnessed, the rising smoke from a rooftop, was staining the night sky, which often reciprocates and lowers itself to touch the hills, would be found guilty, in the morning, openly romancing, would send the clouds, kneeling, to steal or offer a flamboyant kiss.
Painting Courtesy: Girl Reading Painting by Johann Georg Meyer
