A homecoming on Aradura Hill

by Esther Thur (India)

I didn't expect to find India

I was born in Kohima, the hill station capital of Nagaland – a northeastern state of India – and moved away after my initial years there. My disconnection with the place grew in mercurial leaps and bounds after my 19th birthday, the year Mum passed away from cancer. After more than a decade away on a constant basis, I made the decision to fly home and spend some time there to reconnect. One early morning in May – almost three months into my stay – I woke with an overwhelming urge to head for a walk towards Aradura Hill, the hill above my old childhood home. Stepping out from the rather clumsy, towering gates of our home, I walked past pot-hole ridden roads of the locality, towards the forests above. Memories rushed past me – early mornings spent accompanying Dad for his ritualistic walks up the hill. Some mornings, he would attempt talking me into staying back, with the biting chill at that hour. Almost always, with a silent nod of the head, he would agree to my insistent enthusiasm to join in. Emerging onto the farms and thickly wooded areas up above, we would cut across orchards of apple, plum, and peach trees; little dairy farms, and local vegetation. Every few minutes, Dad would dive into a discourse about the various names, aspects and features of some plant, tree, etc. as he stopped to inspect it: why the purplish flower speckled with the darkest black spots grew so sparsely; the Strychnine tree, with it’s mild orange-coloured, oval-shaped fruit with disk-like seeds that have enough poison in them to kill a grown man in minutes. Comparisons of the bamboo groves swaying subtly in the morning breeze to the ability to be durable; to endure, to bend and not break. I cut through one of the farms, nearing the top. A cow mooed loudly from the corner as I stepped across a ridge, overgrown with field daisies, startling me out of my reverie. I noticed then, the Strychnine tree beside me. A soft laugh came from my left. An elderly woman with greying hair, plump apple cheeks glowing a soft pink; eyes bright, round like a child’s almost, smiled encouragingly at me and came closer. “The farmers find it a nuisance and speak of cutting it down,” she said. I smiled and shot her a questioning look. She carried on, “there are always days where you will find a wild cat, bird, even the occasional cow or dog, lying dead at this corner of the farm... I would still not cut it down though, the tree,” she paused. I asked her why. “We are farmers, every inch of these lands – everything that grows and lives here – are of much value to us. With each death we experience here, we are reminded that the value of these lands lessened slightly that day, with the loss of a life that gives to our livelihoods and to these lands. We cherish what remains even more..” With an abrupt, “oh!” she turned, walking off down the field. Midway across, she turned and – in a tone just loud enough to confuse me on if I heard right – said, “death gives as much value as life, you know.” Giving me another knowing smile, she disappeared down the field. I thought to myself how similar that final smile seemed to my mother’s own. Heading back down the hill, I noticed how beautiful it still was: everything glowing a soft, hazy gold in the morning sun, plants and trees still shimmering with morning dew. It had clearly not occurred to me on my return home this time, that I would finally find peace over the death of Mum after all these years of running from it, and this place.