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Himalayan Trek: Longing

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These words were written on different occasions through the Himalayan Trek that I was a part of during the FC at LBSNAA. They were suitably edited later.             
  
            There is only one thing I know, and that is writing. When I am sitting next to the window and my soul is wanting to get out of my body, which is now but a cage in hands with the boundaries of this physical world, I can but write down what I see. The camera is too simple a tool to depict that. I look at more than what my eyes can see and therefore I must use the pen.

What is there in the mountains, what is in this air, in this rain, that is so humbling? As the bus runs, I see flowers yellow and red and purple. The rhododendrons have started to bloom everywhere on the hills. They look like red Diwali lights on broad, strong trees, right in the stark daylight. They are everywhere.

A wet weather. A cloudy sky, green fields. A heavy, moist air. Jingles of mule bells vibrating through the space. Huge saintly mountains encircling us. And emptiness. You were going a different way and I an entirely separate one. North and South. Two rays originating from the same source, going in different directions. How could there be solace in the hills then? How can there not be your name in the birds’ cries?

*

I believe that the most beautiful thing about affection is its tendency to worship. There are innumerable songs, an infinite number of pages have been filled – lovers have always seen the God in their love. And true it is – who can make the flowers bloom in the eyes, fill the midday mornings with the koyal’s chirps, fill colours in the drowsy gray clouds – if not your love? Who can but take away the greatest pain of all – that of the heart? People go to the worship-houses, lovers to their lovers. This is my way of worshipping you, and even though you might never read it, or we shall very soon part our ways; maybe you will not remain an object of worship for me, the flowers might stop blooming and stormy clouds might drown away all the colours in the world – but my words will remain there in your offering. Will the God hear? Does he?

So, I have fallen in love a number of times. On many occasions, I have also written letters. I have also tried not to fall again. I have driven myself to tears, believing that you do not care, that this affection is only futile. I have failed. On this trip therefore, I have brought the memories of you, your visage itself, in my eyes.

*

I am sitting on a huge rock next to a stream. I am alone because I am writing. The air is getting colder with every passing sentence. I am on the slope of a ridge, the stream next to me. It is fresh snowmelt, the water. A few feet away, there is still some snow, resting in its last phases with the typical torn, cotton candy-like pattern. There were some OTs here just a few seconds ago. They were all standing on the rock and listening to the stream and watching the snowy face of the valley. They have left now.

I am sitting alone and sometimes I pity myself in such conditions. It is a darned necessity, the fight – the want, the need – of being alone and talking to others. Back in the Academy, I am shit scared that you are going to get bored of me due to my social disabilities. I see you talking to others in the dining hall and feel insecure. It is torturous. It is tumultuous.

However, I love your eyes when you do the talking. Your affable nature is a thing that I want to conserve, to blend in myself. I love your facial contours when you speak. I hate myself because I brought such a precious person to tears that night.

 

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