To the Boy from the hills

by Upasya Bhowal (India)

Making a local connection India

After a five-hour long journey in a middle aged car cautiously crawling its way uphill, when I finally reached your quiet, little village, I was not my usual cheery self. This probably explains why I did not spare a second glance as you ferried us to our rooms. An hour later, when I finally stepped out of our cottage, the afternoon lamps were slowly flickering back to life. For as long as I could remember, I had been in love with the hustle and bustle of cities. I preferred that over this all-consuming deafening silence that I now found around me. Yet, as I stood there with the evening dropping like a curtain around me, I felt drawn towards Ichchegaon. Ichchegaon – The village of Wishes. There was a fairytale enchantment to this name. I stood there, watching a ladybug scurrying up the nearest lamppost when I heard a rustle behind me. I turned to find you, a smile playing on the corner of your lips as you held an empty tray – probably on your way back from some errand. You looked at me and help up your hand, your forefinger and thumb curling into an “O”, a quiet compliment for, “You look great!” My face breaking into a grin of acknowledgement, I noticed how the last rays of the sun caught the caramel of your eyes. As we stood there, a smile and a grin, I realized I had made a friend. The next morning when I asked you if you’d show me around, in broken Hindi, you had told me it would be your pleasure to do so and as your face broke into that impish, charming grin, I realized you had hoped for this as much as I had. When we set out at midday, I remember how you walked me through narrow paths among tiny flower gardens in full bloom. You told me about how there was always some flower or the other blossoming throughout the year in these gardens. You showed me your tiny house where you stayed with your mother and a younger sister. Your father worked in the nearby city and stayed with you during the weekends. You took me to the only monastery in the village where I watched you close your eyes in a quick prayer. After we had walked around for another hour, after we had tasted momos from the only fast food joint around, after we had played with your favourite dogs, after we met a couple of your friends, we finally settled on top of a tiny hillock to watch the Sun go down. While those little colourful flags that flutter all over your village, changed shades in the afternoon light, it dawned on me that I did not want to leave. As you dropped me off to my cottage that night, I suddenly realized that we had not exchanged names. You were already a little distance down the cobbled path but when you heard my question, you looked back and shouted it out to me from where you were. But the leaves rustled just then and the wind picked up and carried away your muffled words. In the lingering silence that followed, I decided to wait until tomorrow to ask you your name. I shut the door behind me as you disappeared round the bend. It was the last time I ever saw you. So, this is for you. This is for the boy who made the city girl want to stay back in a village tucked away carefully on the slope of a mountain. This is for the boy I shared two sunsets with. This is for the boy who cradled an eternity of memories on his palm and handed it to me. This is for the boy I loved enough to want to stay back. I left behind that love in Ichchegaon. I hope that one evening, as you are walking back, empty tray in hand, that wind which took your name away, rushes by you once again. I hope you stop and look at the setting sun. I hope you remember that smile and that grin and in that moment- I hope you find Love.