I could count the rows of pines, for the contour was rising and dipping in a pattern under the silver blue moon. Yesterday was a full moon, maybe. At least it seemed so. Those mountains sat hunched, patiently, like kind giants. Watching over you, assuring you with their presence. Like a force that’s so powerful that it wouldn’t budge; like a parent so protective that it’ll run for miles, right by your side.
I haven’t seen hills like that before; it seemed like an exclusive show.
That’s the magic of hills.
Of its people. Of living at a place that has a tiny iron gate, the one you thought existed only in Snow White type tales. Of climbing up a wooden ladder and sitting on the floor of an attic that has slanted wooden roof. Of walking its floor with a slouch and knowing that you’ll bang your head against the roof if you straighten up.
Of meeting people who are simpler than simple. Of making little new friends. Of watching snails, tinier than a thumb nail, slug sluggishly over green leaves. Of watching raindrops slither down the same green leaves. Of going down the Mall Road in a rain coat, with your jeans folded up to knees.
Of watching the big silver stadium lights getting lost in the fog and re-emerging as UFOs. Of tucking cakes and burgers in the jacket to dis-attract monkeys. Of getting the wild monk haircut from a stylist you don’t really know of. Of following the sharply rising pines with your eyes, only to lose their top in the thick fog. Of attending prayer service with strangers at a hilltop church.
Of whistling whimsically by the roadside. Of walking up and down a trek to check out beautiful stone and wood cottages. Of laughing hysterically at a passer-by’s fake accent and realizing that you yourself have one. Of striking I’ll throw you off the cliff poses with new friends.
There’s more coming from my latest trip. Do read, as per your whims.