After years of staying in a brick and mortar jungle, I finally have a window to wake up to. A cup of tea and the blue hills beyond is what I look forward to every morning: there’s nothing else I’d want to do, there’s nowhere else I’d rather be. Specially when it’s raining!
Back in the hills, my window used to open to a bed of Chrysanthemums, Mt. Kanchendzongha (the third highest mountain in the world) and a glistening river flowing from the Himalayas, snaking it self through the valley until it finally met river Teesta. And while on a sunny day it sparkled like a thousand million suns, on a moonlit night this became the secret stream of molten silver. Sadly, I have no photographs of my own to show you how beautiful and striking it was but this photograph is ditto of what I’m talking about. Meanwhile, I need a bite from my lemon cake.
Life has brought me into this weird situation, where every time I see these hills, I’m equally happy and sad. Happy because they make me feel at home. Sad because I miss my little room and the extended study that dad built for me with glass windows.
And as I write from my window, the only thing that worries me is that I’m having to see my childhood memories get tarnished and replaced with snapshots of violence. With political outrage, killing, strikes, processions and so much blood, I wonder if I’d ever be able to return again. In fact I guess, the only way to live those memories is to not re-live them anymore.
Somethings are better left the way they were