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Distrust looks like two apprehensive blue eyes and scared feet hurrying away from you. I had woken up with a start as something had crashed into the stream flowing outside my bedroom window. In my grogginess I could only catch a glimpse of those eyes, as they briefly accused me and scurried away. Perhaps it was the subtle hint of fear in them that spurred me out of bed, and had me rushing across the gurgling waters in an unintentional game of chase after the three foot tall curious stranger who had just disturbed my dreams. It can be tricky to follow a seasoned mountain lad uphill while trying to talk to him. In soft pants I spluttered questions, "what were you doing outside my window? Did you hurt yourself? Were you spying on me? Why are you running away? Please, stop. I am a friend. I just want to talk." Listening to my last plea, he came to a sudden halt, turned around and said, "They all say that. And none of them mean it." And hearing that, I stopped to catch my breath. Standing one metre apart, surrounded by sheep and pressing our heels in mud and wildflowers, we assessed the Other. "I am not the bad guy. I am an Indian who loves your mountains, the flowers, the valley and your people." A silent gaze in response. Innocence battling with years of trauma and genuine curiosity. "What is your name? I am Aleena. Do you live around here?" He gingerly moved behind the herding staff he carried before mumbling, "You should not have followed me." Before I can answer, an old frail lady walked towards us with determination, speaking in a tongue that I didn't understand but with an expression I could easily read- distrust and fear with a pinch of anger. She yanked the boy further away from me and huddled him in her pashmina before giving me a sidelong glance and hurrying him away. Their sheep followed close behind. I stared at their backs as I stood there in my pyjamas trying to wrap my head around the idea of me being someone scary enough. It were my confused and sad darting eyes that caught the brown parchment lodged in the mud where the lady had stood only moments ago. I walked over and picked up the fated breadcrumb in hopes of being led closer to the running duo but all I saw were tiny loops and dots arranged militarily across the page in tight regiment lines. It was foreign, or may be I was foreign to it, but I was determined to find out. So I rushed back to the cottage and called the housekeeper to ask about the script and the hidden story that I could find there. Mustafa smiled at me and said, "Where did you find this? You went looking for secrets?" I blinked in confusion. He then took the long horizontal parchment in his hands and ran his fingers across the markings, "My grandmother knows the secrets of these loops and dots. You know, the loops show the type of knots and the dots tell you the colour. What you have found is the secret recipe of a Kashmiri carpet, encrypted so that we can protect something that is ours alone-art and tradition." I realised then, that languages can be born out of fear too.