Friday, June 19, 2015

Your Favorite Story

Having written many, he counts only one as his favorite story.
And that story was written only for one reader. A reader who will never read that story. A story which only that reader could understand in all its complexity as well as its nuanced simplicity. Perhaps more than what he managed to tell.

Now he writes, and  he writes for many. And thus, stories are no longer favorite. They are good. But they are not his favorite. Perhaps the lingering taste of a last page sentence still ruminate or perhaps an alluring sense of belongingness ties him to that story. Or simply it might be nostalgic delusion.

But like pages that has been turned over, getting dusted in the shady sun. Stories would be forgotten. New stories would be written and favorite stories would be created.

Of course for somebody who is worth reading it. And thus he continue writing, for that reader who awaits for that story.

Saturday, June 13, 2015

Watching from Waching

Suddenly it started to hail.

In the crammed make shift tent, there was no space for all of them. They were a group of 40 people going to Nagroli camp, which was way up in the mountains.

"Lets go to that thatched house there". He said with a grumpy face. He couldn't stand the crowd. The whole reason why he came for this trip was to enjoy some time away from the crowd.

Without waiting for the answer and discussions that followed, he went out of the tent and started to  jog towards the thatched house. In between, few hailstones hit him. It was hurting yet, he continued his steps.

He could hear people commenting about his crazy act. This prompted him to run towards the house.
Slowly the yellow tent and the voices, from different languages, started to disappear. Soon he could see the features of the house.

It was thatched. But the walls were not new. They were old, with mud from where river meanders around the valley. In a kind of dilapidated condition, yet somebody was taking care of it. It was a two storey house, like every house he saw on the way. Yet, it was different, with a balcony running around the house. There were wooden railings around it, supported by wooden pillars with wide spacing between them.

The ground floor was used as store room and also as oven. May be to heat the room upstairs. The creaky wood stairs took him to first floor. The doors were closed with a Godrej lock guarding them. He knew nobody was there. It belonged to him, at least for sometime.

The hail was now strong. He could no longer see the Yellow tent. They were far away. Far away from this part of the world.

He walked over the hay stacks to see what was hidden behind the house.

And there he saw the heaven.

In a distance, there stood the magnificent Parvati peak. Parvati river played hide and seek through the  pine trees in front of him. Far to his right, there were array of other himalayan peaks. There was no hail and beyond them, clouds pulled of patches of shades in blue and orange. It was magnificent.

He put his backpack down. And put his legs into the space between pillars and let them dangle from balcony railings. Put his chin down on the railing support and gazed at the most beautiful place he has ever seen.

If only others could have left that Yellow tent. They missed it.

I was in  Waching village. Some day I would love to go back there. And watch from there,  the mountains beyond and the river that flow below and breath that cool fresh air and listen to the sweet echoes of mountains.

Photo credit:

Wednesday, June 10, 2015

50 Shades of Happiness

I am happy. But how much happy am I ?

I am so happy. Does that mean I cannot be more happy ?

I cannot be more happier. Does it mean I was sad the moment before ? And what about my future happiness. Do I have no hope of being more happy ?

How do you say you are happy?  You have to compare with the moment before to say you are happy.

If so you will be always sad. Ain't you ? Because you will be always comparing with the moment before. The moment that is by gone and you will be looking in the future with an eye towards the back.

Like a river that passes down the hill, yearning to go beyond what the banks has to offer, I drift. In search of my ocean.  And then ?  Does anybody reach their ocean. Or is life is all about this search for ocean.

But, are we supposed to be find our happiness in this search or in peace of the after search.

I am lost in thoughts. As usual.