Eight Feet Vacation

The window opened. Our eager souls took to flight. Destination–soaring land, forest, grass, pine, a clear sky. Unburdened of fears–Rain, traffic, landslide–we surged for old friends and new ones without an umbrella.

Our shadow is not the absence of light. It is our light. Makes memories for the world. Our minds carry the light of our Baba. Show him places he could not visit. He saw the love of our friends at Fagu. 

Mr and Mrs Sharma have apple orchards and a homestay. We’ve visited them twice before. An inexplicable entanglement with their lives followed. Fagu falls on the way to our destination. We made an overnight halt to meet them. I took their pictures the next morning.

Mrs Banita Sharma with Jaffry. Jaffry is young. Spring loaded kinetic energy. Attached to a length of nylon. He doesn’t know such exhilarations scare most.

Though their homestay is contemporary, Mr and Mrs Sharma are comfortable living in their traditional Himachali home.

Five years ago Mrs Sharma cooked for the guests. They have a full-time chef now.

Mr Bal Krishna Sharma in his apple orchard. Garden of love and patience. An occasional heartbreak. Nature of life.

Stem paste on withering trunk. A mix of copper sulphate, lime and a pesticide. Not all are welcome here.

Daughter Urvashi. 21, preparing for NEET. Wants to travel, but cannot. Responsibilities. Mystery of death scares and confuses her. She has ‘The Disobedient Darkness’. Her eyes sparkled when told the book is about death. She may read it now.

Son Vikas. 24. Talented. Designed the homestay and helps his parents manage it. Loves travelling. Affectionate. Speaks little.

If you’ve transcended aromatic oils and slimy shower gels, try Madhusudan Homestay’s welcome. Genuine. Unlearnt. Look it up on Google. You’ll love them.

The road. A tunnel.

Rushing. Leading. Curving. Deodars and Pines. Cracks in asphalt. Etchings of seekers bygone.

Wild, lustrous borders. Silver thread, green needle. Stories of a land.

Whispers of my past lives. Streams of gliding silence. A corner throbs. Vessels throng. Million tiny legs crawl. Spiders wait. Leaves wait. Saints march. The sun swings by.

Next theatre. The Seetalvan Orchard at Kotgarh. Rose plants. Planked decks. Reaching stripes. Floating spirits.

Memories. Bitter cold. Some dark. Some bright. Bursting bubbles. Dims the day, moisten our eyes.

Curtains part. Ease wanders. Mind. Sky. Floating feathers. Liberation. The world is everywhere.

Bouquet of toes. Joyous projections.

Your light. My shadow. The next breath is in peace.

Rohan. 26. Manages the place. Post graduate in journalism and mass communication from Chandigarh. Played cricket for Himachal state. Loves the camera. Proud of his heritage. Unimpressed with technology. Instruments of seclusion. Silent families lost in their games. Hopes to be a news reporter or a journalist. Bring a change. Showed us the orchards. Apple cultivation costs the environment. Aliens on land. Pesticides. We hesitated asking him for conveniences, thereafter.

Chef Nayan. From Uttarakhand. Was in the Andaman. Hopes to travel the country. His favourite are the Andaman fish curry and Pahari Chicken. I loved his Palak Paneer. Takes part in social dialogue. Wants to be a voice for the youth. Follows politics. Prime minister Modi and Mr Yogi are idols. Biodiversity!

Mr Rajender Jina. Owner. Demonstrated the plum sorting process and acquainted me with the potted plants. Well spoken. Affable.

Mrs Meenakshi JIna. Owner. Warm. Accommodating. Picky about the people she welcomes. Respected by the locals.

Manjeet Kashave. Acquainted at the kerb, courtesy car out of petrol. Now, a Facebook friend.

Lady, cutting grass to clear the door. Unknown.

Tempo driver. Unknown.

Moksha and his guardian. Scared of the camera. Fond of ear rubs.

Caramel-chocolate stroll.

Boundaries, gates, windows. Consolations. Troubles in the hip-pocket. Future. Flimsy fears. The wave sweeps past, regardless.

Win. Lose. Game. Illusion. Orange evening finds itself.

Words. Rubble. Jagged. Not my heart. I stumble, step on love to reach your door.

Iron flowers. Immortal. Impervious. Who do you gladden? Iron souls?

A platform. A spire. Connection. Connected. Spectator. Spectacle. Ends of the same fibre.

Unrest. Stirrings of darkness. A toungless mouth devouring light. Raising pigment. It’s not vacant, after all.

A cold-blooded new year followed a dead 2020. Feeding us horrors, fattening us with gloom. Ours is not an orchard ripening despair. The world is not ill because we are. Highway of small risks is better than the island of mad.

Hug Life (even if it makes faces). You’ll attract more.

An overdue trip. Baba’s leaving had us itching for a change. Earlier, we would’ve waited for the crowds to subside or the rains to end. We think different now. No point living inside a tiffin. The world gives and the world takes. Let it flow. Still in doubt? Read ‘The Disobedient Darkness’.